


head over heels

by derekmaliknurse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Harry Potter was Raised by Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, M/M, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Padma Patil, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Minor Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, obviously, that’s quintessential drarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derekmaliknurse/pseuds/derekmaliknurse
Summary: Everyone in Harry’s life thinks he’s engaged to Malfoy. The solution to this is not pretending to date Malfoy, but here he is doing that anyway.





	head over heels

**Author's Note:**

> this story wanted to be written really fucking badly. and i really loved writing it. so if ur reading it, i love you very much. there’s a playlist of a lot of sappy songs that belong in a rom-com [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/fangirl_66/playlist/1ZNN8q8x1sGbiDaYG2pKri?fo=1) that i listened to while writing this.  
> edit: one last thing lol i think it was pretty obvious throughout the story, but this is an au where sirius gets custody of harry after the third book. how this happens is left pretty vague in the story, but if u wanna know what i thought u can always ask me!

Harry may have to kidnap Dean Thomas.

Seamus will be upset, of course, and Hermione will disapprove, and Ron will support him because Ron is a good fucking friend, but this is the only perfect solution to Harry’s current problem, as Dean Thomas is the reason that everyone in Harry’s life thinks he is engaged to Draco Malfoy.

Actually, thinks Harry darkly, it’s _Draco Malfoy_ who is the reason that everyone in Harry’s life thinks he’s going to marry Draco Malfoy. But kidnapping Malfoy will ultimately accomplish nothing, except to convince his friends and family that he has some kinks to sort out. So while the blame, surely, lies with Malfoy, it’s Dean Thomas who Harry has to kidnap because it’s Dean Thomas who has just witnessed Harry trying free samples of wedding cake with Draco sodding Malfoy.

 _This is your own fault,_ Harry tells himself. _You’re the one who decided to move in to Draco Malfoy’s flat. You did this to yourself._ Unfortunately, that doesn’t make him feel any better.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” says Harry as Dean Thomas pushes open the door of _Camille’s Cakes_ and immediately spots Harry and Malfoy. He smiles at them, walking over, and then he sort of looks at them. Then he looks back at the sign outside of the shop that boasts free wedding cake samples for engaged couples, and the smile fades, to be replaced by an expression of befuddlement.

Harry is uncomfortably aware of what, exactly, it looks like: Malfoy, sitting close to Harry, ankle hooked around his – because that’s the way Malfoy _sits_ , and they’d been kicking each other’s ankles and it was just more _comfortable_ after a while – , a fork of cake halfway to Malfoy’s mouth, and the same cake’s icing smeared over Harry’s cheek.

“Well this is awkward,” says Malfoy, setting his fork down.

This is the worst possible moment for the owner of the shop, Camille, to come over and beam at Harry and Malfoy brightly.

“How’re you two lovebirds doing?” she asks pleasantly. Harry starts coughing. Instead of helping him, Malfoy laughs.

“Cam,” says Dean, his voice coming out strangled. “I just, er, came over to say hello, Seamus and I were in the neighborhood – and I saw – er, Harry and Malfoy – ”

Camille looks between them with some surprise. “Do you know each other? Oh, of course, from school, I’m being silly. Aren’t they a lovely couple, Dean?”

“Camille is my sister,” explains Dean to Harry, who belatedly remembers Dean’s host of half-siblings and reckons he should probably have made the connection, since this is a Muggle shop and Dean’s mentioned them before. Harry’s not really good with names, a fact Malfoy always makes fun of him for.

“We’re not – ” starts Harry. Malfoy kicks him in the ankle. Of course, they can’t blow their stupid cover. Harry kicks Malfoy back, and smiles at Camille. “We’re, er, about done, I think. The cake was wonderful.”

“The coffee-flavoured one was the best,” Malfoy interrupts, a beatific expression crossing his face.

“Of course you’d say that,” murmurs Harry, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at Malfoy’s coffee obsession. You’d think that a man who was surrounded by coffee all day and night would eventually get tired of it, but not Malfoy.

“Bring out a loaf of that bread Mum likes, will you, Cam?” Dean requests, and once Camille has left, there’s nothing stopping his interrogation of Harry and Malfoy, who stand up, ready to make their escape at any moment.

“Congratulations,” he says to them awkwardly, which isn’t the interrogation Harry expected.

“No, we’re not,” Harry says, and then trails off. “We’re just pretending. Sorry, about that. Your sister makes great, er, cake. Uh.”

“Harry, you don’t have to lie to me,” Dean tells him gently. “We all support you.”

“What,” says Harry.

“ _What_ ,” repeats Malfoy, sounding delighted.

Harry looks with horror at the direction of Dean’s gaze – Harry and Malfoy’s ring fingers, which each sport marching rings: Harry’s silver and probably extremely expensive, and Malfoy’s silver with a bottle-green gem which Harry had only gotten because it reminded him of his mother. How is Harry supposed to explain that Malfoy is a Slytherin and therefore he has terrible, convoluted plans and he forced his ring onto Harry’s hand and stole Harry’s ring all because he didn’t have any Muggle money and he wanted cake, specifically free wedding cake?

Malfoy looks like he’s about to laugh himself silly and this is ridiculous, so Harry grabs his hand, tells Dean, “We’re not actually engaged,” and runs out of the shop at breakneck speed.

“Stop laughing,” says Harry when they’ve stopped at last. His anger at Malfoy is, reluctantly, ebbing away, and his lips are twitching instead. “Oh my god. I _mean it_ , Malfoy, stop laughing.”

“I can’t,” wheezes Malfoy. His cheeks are pink and his nose is scrunched up and Harry can’t look away from him.

“I hate you,” Harry tells him, but he doesn’t. He left behind hating Malfoy back in sixth year, though he didn’t know it then, and now, he thinks that even if he tried to despise him once again – tried to remember Malfoy’s lips curling up in a sneer, tried to remember all the taunts and jeers and various bullying, tried to remember _You’ll be next, Mudbloods!_ – he still wouldn’t be able to hate him. It’s infuriating how much power Malfoy has over him.

Malfoy pauses in the middle of laughing like a hyena to say, “You’ll be fine, Potter. None of your friends are _that_ stupid. They’re not going to believe we’re really engaged, except for Thomas, apparently.” He starts laughing again. “And none of my friends would ever think that.”

Actually, apparently Harry’s friends are idiotic enough to believe he’s engaged to Malfoy. And so are Malfoy’s.

The moment Harry and Malfoy Apparate back to their flat, Hermione, who has either been waiting for them or has impeccable timing, comes marching up to them, eyes flashing and arms crossed in a frightening manner. Malfoy, next to Harry, inches away from her.

“Hullo, Hermione,” says Harry weakly. Has Dean already informed _everyone_? Harry hasn’t even had time to formulate a kidnapping plan yet.

Malfoy inclines his head politely. “Granger.”

“How come I’ve just heard from Dean Thomas that you're engaged to this git?” Hermione says dangerously. Malfoy doesn’t protest to being called a git – after all of the shit he put Hermione through, he doesn’t have the right, but also because he still remembers being slapped in the face in third year – though his nose sticks up in the air like it always does when he’s offended.

“That’s a misunderstanding,” Harry says. Hermione will understand, won’t she? She’s _Hermione_. “We were pretending, you see, to be engaged, for.” Er. “For free wedding cake.” Well, that sounds ridiculous. But less ridiculous than what Dean believes, surely?

Hermione starts looking alarmingly like she’s about to burst into tears. “Harry, I can’t _believe_ you wouldn’t tell us, and now you’re _denying_ it, when I _know_ you’ve been dating Draco for months, Ron’s come around to the idea and I just – I would have _thought_ that you would trust us with this, and I’m so happy for you, but I’m so _angry_ , and don’t you think you’re rushing into this, you're a little young, even Ron and I haven’t – ”

 _Dating Draco for months_? Harry’s mouth opens, then closes. He chances a glance over at Malfoy, who looks flabbergasted. He manages an, “Er.”

“Granger, we are most definitely not engaged,” Malfoy says.

“If you’re not engaged, why were you trying free wedding cake samples for engaged couples only?”

 _Good question._ “We didn’t have any Muggle money, and Malfoy really wanted wedding cake,” Harry tells her, shooting Malfoy a furtive look that says _this is all your fault._

“It was all just a joke,” adds Malfoy, giving Harry a glare that says plainly _I will eviscerate you if you don’t shut up._

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” says Hermione flatly.

“And I haven’t been dating him for months,” Harry continues, horrified at the thought.

And then fucking Pansy Parkinson Floos them. When all this is over, Harry is adding Pansy and Dean’s names to Malfoy’s _List of People I Wish I Could Murder._

“Draco, tell me it isn’t true!” shrieks Pansy.

“I’m not engaged!” yells Malfoy. “I am _not_ engaged, Pansy, stop screaming at me.”

But Pansy gives a big, dramatic gasp – Harry suspects all Slytherins are inherently dramatic – and says, “Draco, you gave him your mother’s ring?”

Harry looks down at his hand. Apparently this ring holds more sentimental value than he’d first thought. Malfoy must really love cake.

Malfoy looks cross and a bit embarrassed. “It’s not what you think, Pansy.”

“I’ve heard enough!” Pansy cries. “Potter, you’ve never deserved Draco’s affection and I miss the days where we would plot your humiliation, but since we’re to be a family, I expect you for tea Sunday afternoons. Draco, I require many gifts to compensate for this betrayal.”

She makes a grand exit. Hermione says, “It’s pub night today isn’t it? We’ll talk about this then, Harry, I’ve got a meeting in ten,” and follows suit.

“Well – shall I make some tea?” says Harry.

Malfoy collapses onto a nearby couch. “Coffee, you idiot.”

Harry escapes into his kitchen to make Malfoy’s sugary, sweet, disgusting coffee and his own normal tea. He ponders over the ridiculousness of even Hermione being convinced he’s engaged, and how he can possibly convince her and Ron that he’s _not_ when they apparently think he’s been in a relationship with Malfoy for months. _Well,_ thinks Harry vaguely, _I have been in a relationship with him for a while...definitely not the romantic kind, though._ He feels that, having lured Malfoy to the side of light in sixth year and having lived with him for three years, he can now call them friends.

Only, not in Malfoy’s company.

“I hope for your sake it’s been made properly,” Malfoy says tartly when Harry emerges from the kitchen.

“You could make it yourself, you know,” Harry replies irritably, plopping down next to Malfoy. “You’re the one who makes coffee for a living, not me.”

“Don’t trivialise my job like that,” is Malfoy’s response. He grudgingly compliments Harry on the coffee, and takes out his _List of People I Wish I Could Murder_ , which is hidden underneath the middle couch cushion. Harry counts them lucky no one has managed to stumble upon it yet – it would be hard work to explain that _no_ , they aren’t _really_ planning on murdering these people.

Malfoy writes _Dean Thomas_ in his fancy, flourishing handwriting. He passes it over to Harry with no comment, who writes _Pansy Parkinson_ underneath in blocky, decidedly average writing. The first ever name on the List is _Harry Potter_ , in Malfoy’s writing, and the second ever is _Draco Malfoy_ , in Harry’s own writing. Things had progressed from there.

“We could – ” starts Malfoy hopefully.

“We’re not _actually_ murdering anyone, Malfoy!” says Harry.

“We can’t kidnap anyone either,” sulks Malfoy, “seeing as Thomas has already told everyone in the world, that’s isn’t any use, so there goes _your_ idea.”

“I didn’t – ”

“You’re obvious, Potter,” dismisses Malfoy, and then his face lights up.

“No,” says Harry, dreading what will inevitably come next. “ _No_ , Malfoy.”

“I have a plan,” says Malfoy with a satisfied smile.

Harry groans.

────────────────────

“ – and so you see we’ve only been dating for a few weeks, and we aren’t engaged, though, I’m holding out hope.” Harry tries a bashful smile.

“Oh Harry,” says Hermione, her hand pressed to her mouth. “I feel a little embarrassed about believing you’d gotten engaged, but this is lovely, really, I’m so glad you’re happy.”

Harry does his best to thank her, though his insides are twisting with regret. He hates lying to Hermione, and she’s so _happy_ for him. He _told_ Malfoy this was an awful idea. They could have set their friends and family all straight, and revealed that they were never going to date, ever, _today_ , but _no,_  Malfoy had to wait in order to humiliate them, and, he said, get away from his parents’ disastrous matchmaking attempts.

But it is nice not to have to deal with Sirius and Remus’s own disastrous matchmaking attempts, which include: a disdainful Parvati Patil, a son of a friend of Remus who admitted to being straight – “But I might be willing to reconsider for you,” he’d added, eyeing Harry hungrily, and Harry had made a hasty exit –, Ernie Macmillan, Lisa Turpin, a Muggle who really had no idea what was going on, almost every single twenty-three-year-old Sirius came into contact with and in one mostly successful attempt Viktor Krum – so Harry had let himself be persuaded to pretend to date Malfoy. _And_ imagining the look on his friends’ faces when they realise how wrong they were is pretty amusing.

When had he even told Ron and Hermione he was dating Malfoy? Had he ever said anything to give them that impression?

“Happy for you, mate,” Ron says, looking faintly ill. “I mean, Malfoy used to be a evil, prejudiced git, but I s’pose he’s grown out of the prejudiced part and he’s not evil anymore. So. He’s just a git, and I can deal with that as long as you’re happy.”

Hermione frowns. “But you’ve already told us you’re dating him, Harry, so you don’t need to look so anxious about our reactions. Have you told Sirius and Remus?”

Harry stares at her, ignoring the latter part of her statement. “What? When did I tell you?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Yeah, of course I know,” lies Harry, “but I just don’t remember...d’you mind telling me what I said? To help with Remus and Sirius,” he adds, congratulating himself on such a good cover-up story.

“Oh...you didn’t say anything special, you only told us you were ‘going out for dinner with Malfoy’.”

Harry stares at her some more. “Right…” _That’s all?_ screams a tiny voice in his head. _That’s it?_ He _remembers_ saying that to Ron and Hermione; they’d gone out to celebrate Malfoy uncovering several unsavoury politicians a few weeks ago. They’d gone as friends, and he’d never thought he implied anything else.

“It was about time, honestly,” Ron says.

Harry tries not to gape at him and changes the subject hastily to Percy’s new girlfriend. When the time comes for him to go home, he’s pleasantly buzzed, all thoughts of Malfoy almost completely driven from his mind and feeling extremely fond of Ron and Hermione, who are the best friends anyone could ask for.

“Thanks, mate,” says Ron, and Harry realises he accidentally said that aloud. He may be a little more drunk than he’d intended.

“I love you, Harry,” Hermione mumbles, her eyes full of tears and her arm around Ron’s shoulders. Hermione may be a little drunk too. She’s a sappy drunk; so is Harry, it’s something they’ve got in common.

“Merlin,” Ron says, shaking his head, but he’s got a smile on his face – that small, slow, pleased one he reserves for Harry and Hermione. “You okay to Apparate, Harry?”

Harry makes a face. Ron seems to take that as a _no,_  and Side-Along’s Harry and Hermione both to Hogsmeade. Apparition makes Harry feel sick even when he’s sober, so he’s faintly impressed that he hasn’t thrown up.

“Can you find your way home?” Ron asks him, looking around at their surroundings with an expression close to nostalgia.

“‘M not that drunk...don’t worry,” Harry assures him, planting a sloppy kiss on Ron’s cheek and giving him a cheeky smile. He wobbles a bit on the spot.

“Don’t think Malfoy would like that too much...alright, good night Harry.”

“Malfoy.” Harry sighs loudly. “Almost forgot.” He sighs again.

Ron gives him an amused look, then Apparates himself and Hermione out of Hogsmeade and back to their home.

Harry walks back to his and Malfoy’s flat slowly. There’s Honeydukes...he’d been so furious when he hadn’t been able to go in third year...and Zonko’s, Ron said George was thinking about finally buying the shop... snow crunches under Harry’s feet and snowflakes are falling rapidly into his eyes, onto his glasses. He leans his head back and lets one fall into his mouth, the way his Muggle classmates used to. Sometimes the beauty of Hogsmeade will catch him unawares, this place of his childhood and this place where he now lived. Now is one of those moments. He looks at the shops, twinkling and decorated lavishly with Christmas lights, and the people flitting in and out, laughing and talking the whole while, and feels something akin to peace. Or maybe he’s just drunk.

Harry makes his way, finally, to Malfoy’s coffee shop, and the flat above. He stares at it for a while. His home. Or – Malfoy’s home, technically, but it had been a long time since anyone had referred to it as that. It was their home now.

Malfoy is already sleeping inside when Harry enters. He settles down on the couch, and thinks about how stupid he is to have agreed to this insane plan of Malfoy’s. He thinks about Malfoy’s insane plan in sixth year that probably would have worked if Harry hadn’t carried out his own insane plan of turning him away from Voldemort. He thinks about the one and only time he’d kissed Malfoy. He thinks about a lot of things and it’s all Ron and Hermione’s fault for making him feel safe enough to drink all those pints.

Then Dean Thomas sends him an Owl:

_Harry,_

_I’m awfully sorry about everyone knowing about the whole – engaged thing. I made the mistake of telling Seamus, and he let it slip to Neville who let it slip to Luna who let it slip to Ginny who let it slip to Pansy Parkinson who confronted Ron, who told Hermione of course. It was all a big mess, though I’m impressed Seamus only told Neville. Our apologies once again. I’m sure you didn’t want the news to come out that way._

_Hoping you can forgive me,_

_Dean_

Harry yawns. He means to tell Dean it’s alright – though it’s not really – and to add _Seamus Finnigan_ to the List, but he finds himself falling asleep instead, right there on that stupid couch, falling asleep and dreaming of kissing Malfoy.

────────────────────

Harry’s first kiss had been Cho Chang, but his second had been Draco Malfoy.

There had been blood everywhere, and Moaning Myrtle had been shouting, and Snape was screaming at him to _get out_ , and Harry had thought with a pang of shame of what Remus would say if he just left Malfoy bleeding in a bathroom – bleeding _because of Harry_ – and he’d said, “I’m _staying_.” Snape had sneered, but lacking any sort of real threat.

Harry stayed. When Ron and Hermione came, he shrugged off their worried suggestions to come back to the Gryffindor common room, and stayed. When Pansy Parkinson came, pale and close to hysterics and clutching at a handful of Slytherins, he didn’t talk to her, and she didn’t talk to him – not even to spare him a sneer – but he stayed. When Madam Pomfrey told him to get some sleep, he took her advice and went to sleep in the hospital wing, so he could stay.

It wasn’t for Malfoy that he stayed. He had known, that whole year, that Malfoy was planning something. It had never mattered that everyone dismissed him. Harry had hated Malfoy for so long, he could tell when something was wrong with him. It wasn’t for Malfoy’s sake. Only Harry had heard him, and he had sounded so frightened – _he’ll kill me, he’ll kill my family._ Harry could understand about family; he would do anything for Sirius and Remus, would have done anything for his parents. If Harry could convince Malfoy – if he could thwart Malfoy’s plans, he could thwart Voldemort’s.

He hadn’t counted on Malfoy being a stubborn, stupid git, of course.

When Malfoy did finally wake, he didn’t even have the decency to look surprised that Harry was there. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept the entire time Harry had been waiting. He always looked exhausted in sixth year.

“Come to gloat about the scars you’ve given me, Potter?” Malfoy said, voice hoarse. “Did you want us to match?”

Guilt had twisted it’s way into Harry’s heart. “I didn’t – ” he began. “I didn’t know what that spell was. At least I didn’t throw any Unforgivables at you.” Everything was coming out wrong. Everything was always a fight with Malfoy. Why had he thought it could be different?

Malfoy didn’t even bother to argue. He was so feeble, lying there, and Harry was the only one who thought he posed a threat.

“Come on,” Harry said quietly. “Let’s not pretend I don’t know what’s going on here.”

“I’ve never had to pretend that was the case. Since when do you know anything, Potter?”

“Shut _up_ , for once in your miserable life,” Harry said, trying to keep his temper in check. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Dumbledore will protect your family, I _know_ he will.”

“You don’t know anything!” said Malfoy, and for the first time he seemed angry. For some reason, this encouraged Harry.

“ _Listen,_ ” Harry said. He was always saying that to Malfoy in sixth year. _Listen_ , _listen to me, listen._

“Can’t you _go_? Why are you here, why are you _always_ here?”

“Listen,” repeated Harry. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to do it. I’m sorry for the spell, okay? Draco, listen to me.”

“Don't call me that,” Malfoy said. “I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to talk to you!” He had looked at Harry for one long moment, quivering, and then Madam Pomfrey had come in and kicked Harry out, and Pansy Parkinson had shoved her way in with Crabbe and Goyle.

Harry had stayed, and then he had left.

He wasn’t sure whether he had got to Malfoy, whether Malfoy had listened to him.

It turned out that he had.

The next day, Malfoy sat next to Harry in Potions, sneering at Ron and Hermione, who shot him looks of deep dislike and looked to Harry with bewilderment. Harry was too busy gaping to argue, or say anything, really.

“I still hate you,” said Malfoy, “violently, and terribly.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Harry told him, and he was being perfectly honest.

“But I’m listening,” Malfoy continued. “Alright?”

Harry almost smiled. He didn’t, because it was _Malfoy_ , but he almost did. That was how he should have known he was in trouble, even back then.

Malfoy had to talk to Dumbledore, but Harry didn’t know what Dumbledore had told Malfoy to do, what Dumbledore was going to do to protect Malfoy and Malfoy’s family. He’d accomplished his task, he’d set Malfoy on the course for good. Or as close as Malfoy could get to good. It was done. There was no need to think about Malfoy, or wonder if he was scared.

Except – Malfoy sat next to him in Potions again. And again. And again. And Harry didn’t tell him to move, even though he only sat there to insult Harry and bitch about Slughorn. At least until Slughorn finally did take note of Malfoy, likely due to his association with Harry.

“Why don’t you just tell that wanker to _move_?” Ron, who didn’t take kindly to his spot being stolen, complained.

“I dunno,” Harry would say, shrugging. He didn’t know. It was just – entertaining, a little, to listen to Malfoy’s rants. Malfoy had listened to Harry, so Harry listened to him, whether he was talking about the quality of coffee in Hogwarts or how it was absolutely insane to be turning against the Dark Lord. He didn’t like Malfoy, he hated him still for being the first person to call Hermione a Mudblood and for bullying everyone in sight. But sometimes he would forget that Malfoy was an awful person, and it was, he thought, because of Malfoy’s steady stream of bored commentary in lessons.

He forgot, that even if Malfoy was on his side now, he hadn’t miraculously turned into a better person.

They fought that whole year – when Malfoy would say something bigoted or insulting, when Harry would make a pointed remark about Slytherins or Snape. They fought over anything and over everything, but Malfoy kept sitting next to him in Potions, and Harry kept letting him.

“This isn’t healthy, Harry,” Hermione insisted, “are you friends with Malfoy or not? Make up your mind.” Harry didn’t like talking to Malfoy about Hermione. He didn’t think Malfoy deserved Hermione’s forgiveness, or Ron’s, not that it mattered since technically, to Harry's knowledge, Malfoy hadn’t apologised yet. But Hermione had a point. In the dark Potions classroom, Harry talked to Malfoy like he talked to Ron and Hermione, and outside of it, he usually punched him in the face.

He had tried to approach the topic with Malfoy. In hindsight, he wished he hadn’t, or had at least picked a more crowded place to talk to him. At the time, Harry had figured the secluded, empty Quidditch pitch was a perfect place, and he’d been itching to fly anyway, so he’d suggested a match with Malfoy.

“Unless you’re _scared_ , of course,” Harry had added, to which Malfoy replied, with narrowed eyes, “You _wish_.” Harry had thought of second year, and hitting Malfoy with a tickling spell, and had to repress a smile.

Malfoy with his cheeks pink from the cold and his hair ruffled from the wind and his mouth smirking – it was a dangerous combination. Malfoy laughing at Harry, with Harry, Malfoy with his face still and determined to catch the Snitch before him – Harry had been playing with fire.

Harry got the Snitch, anyway, which he would have bragged about years later if not for – well. He flew down, laid down onto the grass, studied the sky and laughed, flushed with victory and triumph. But Malfoy, who was a sore loser, argued that Harry was cheating. He also said Harry was mad for seeing that particular cloud as a crown, when it was so clearly a snake. And they were still arguing, like they were friends, and Harry was still laughing, and it seemed so natural to lean over and kiss him.

Malfoy kissed him back almost immediately; his hands found their way to Harry’s hair, pulling harshly, tugging Harry closer. Harry didn’t think, couldn’t think. He kissed Malfoy like he had something to prove. Malfoy kissed him like a challenge. He kissed Malfoy back like he wanted to _win._ Malfoy was cold, and pale. Harry wanted to kiss him forever and ever, wanted him here, right here, and then he made the mistake of breaking away from him. He looked at him and looked at him, and he didn’t think he could ever get enough. Malfoy smiled at him, reached up to smooth down Harry’s hair, a fool’s task, and then he froze.

Harry froze too. He thought of Ginny. He thought _what am I doing?_ He thought that this wasn't supposed to happen, shouldn't have happened. He thought he wanted to do it again, so badly it hurt. He could see his thoughts reflected on Malfoy’s face. They were nothing to each other, nothing, and yet. And yet.

“I – ” said Malfoy, scrambling up.

“I wasn’t – ” Harry started helplessly. “I didn’t – ”

“I have to go,” Malfoy said. “I don’t – I have to go.” He left Harry there, his hand still outstretched where Malfoy had been.

They didn’t talk about it. They went back to being whatever they were, and Harry didn’t listen to Hermione’s advice again – at least not her advice about Malfoy. He Owled Sirius and Remus instead, and felt so utterly homesick for them – for Remus’s bone-crushing hugs and the millions of kisses Sirius would plant in his hair – that he forgot about Malfoy for a bit.

The next year, Malfoy said that _he was coming_ with Harry, Harry had dragged him into this, he was _coming_ , and Malfoy looked at Harry so fiercely Harry said _alright_ , and his mother said _absolutely_ _not_ , that his father was in prison still, and he had to stay safe, that Voldemort was looking for them. That was the first time Harry had hugged Malfoy, and he had never wanted to let go – but he did. The year after that, Harry didn’t go back to Hogwarts. He played professional Quidditch for a few months, and he missed his family – family that was not his by blood, but what did that matter? –  so much he came back. McGonagall offered him the Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching post a year later, and he accepted. Malfoy graduated with seven N.E.W.T.s but all he did with them was open up his own coffee shop and write articles about Potions and corrupted politicians on the side. And Harry moved in with him, and he was happy.

They didn’t talk about it.

────────────────────

It’s a Sunday afternoon.

“I don’t really have to go to Pansy’s,” says Harry, “do I?”

Malfoy looks up at him, eyes glinting. “What kind of fake boyfriend would you be if you didn’t?” He cackles. Harry hates Malfoy’s laugh. Harry hates everything about Malfoy.

“ _I_ already go to Weasley and Granger’s every Tuesday,” Malfoy adds in a lofty tone.

“Ron and Hermione are your friends too,” Harry says. “And it's more like every second Tuesday. And I have dinner with Blaise all the time.”

“Right,” says Malfoy, his voice suddenly cold and faraway. “Maybe you should have Zabini be your pretend boyfriend, then.”

Harry furrows his brows. “What?”

Malfoy doesn’t reply; he continues writing a scathing article on the Ministry.

“I’ll go to Pansy’s. I was always going to.”

“No one cares what you do,” Malfoy interrupts, jabbing his quill in his inkpot with rather more force than necessary and sloshing a fair bit on the table.

Harry stares at him for a few seconds, then shakes his head and gives up. Maybe Malfoy is a little jealous of Harry, for having dinner with Blaise. He and Blaise have always had a strange sort of relationship. The thought of Blaise and Malfoy together makes Harry feel sick, but he pushes away the feeling, and gets ready to Apparate to Pansy’s.

Pansy lives in an elaborate mansion with Padma Patil. Harry has never been able to understand whether Pansy is dating Padma, or whether they’re simply friends, or why they live together. They spend most of their time sniping at each other and bickering like Ron and Hermione would. The only thing he really knows is how they got to know each other – that year at Hogwarts he had missed.

But when Harry arrives, Pansy is sitting on the steps leading up to the doors, holding an old-fashioned handkerchief that has the initials _T.N,_ looking alarmingly like she’s been crying.

“Pansy?”

Pansy looks up. Her sparkly black eyeliner is applied expertly, but the skin under her eyes is red, and her cheeks are wet. “Potter,” she says. “Good, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, sitting next to her.

“Not really,” says Pansy, unconcerned. “But I’d rather be distracted than have to sit there and think about everything that went wrong.”

“What went wrong?”

“Merlin, Potter, didn’t I just tell you I didn’t want to talk about it?” Pansy sighs. She tells Harry anyway. “Padma left. She’s angry with me.”

“Oh,” says Harry, not sure what to say.

“It was my fault, I suppose,” Pansy says, her voice bitter. She doesn’t give any details, and Harry doesn’t ask her to.

“Malfoy’s angry with me too,” offers Harry.

Pansy lifts her head, amused. “What did you do?”

“Mentioned having dinner with Blaise.”

Pansy snorts. “You’re an absolute idiot. Draco’s always had a jealous streak.”

If Malfoy’s jealous, it’s not for the reasons Pansy thinks. Harry shrugs.

“I invited Girl Weasley,” says Pansy after a moment. “To make you feel more at home. I also quite enjoy her company. I planned on easing you in. Girl Weasley one week, more Slytherins the next. She, however, had a Quidditch game to play.”

Harry does wish Ginny were here. “That’s nice of you, to, er, ease me in,” he says, trying not to make it sound like a question. “Are you and Ginny good friends then?”

“We run into each other sometimes. Shouldn’t you _know_ this, Potter? You’re practically family.”

Harry leans his head back. “Practically being the operative word there.”

“What a sob story,” says Pansy, bored.

“It’s alright. I have Sirius and Remus.” Sirius and Remus are, technically, _practically_ family too, but Harry doesn’t want to think like that. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d had to go to the Dursleys’ after third year instead of Sirius.

“You’re not about to cry, are you? Theo’s handkerchief is a bit ruined now.”

“Theo?”

“Nott,” replies Pansy. “You really did only pay attention to Draco.”

“I didn’t,” says Harry defensively.

Pansy quirks one eyebrow at him.

“Alright, I did,” admits Harry. “I paid attention to Crabbe and Goyle too...sort of.”

“Because they were Draco’s best friends,” Pansy explains. “Did you really only learn Blaise’s name in sixth year?”

“Er,” says Harry.

“Pathetic.” Pansy shakes her head. “Wish I could have a smoke.”

“Me too,” says Harry. “But Hermione made me give them up.”

Pansy looks vastly entertained at this piece of information.

Harry considers telling Pansy that she promised him tea. He has a strange thought that he doesn’t want Ginny to be here, after all. He likes talking to Pansy.

“I’m not really engaged to Malfoy,” Harry says, just to make things clear. He may be deceiving everyone in his life by telling them he’s dating Malfoy, but at least he’s not pretending he’s getting married.

“That’s a matter of time,” Pansy informs him. “I know Draco. I’ve been watching him moon over you embarrassingly for years. If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.” She sounds perfectly serious, and Harry inches away from her in fear.

“I’ll try my best not to,” he promises. He doesn’t want to hurt Malfoy, not ever again, but he doesn’t think he _can_. Malfoy hasn’t been mooning over him, that’s for sure.

“No, really.” Pansy turns to face him. “If you fuck this up, I’ll cut off your dick and chop it into a million pieces. So. Don’t fuck this up.”

Harry swallows. “Okay.”

Pansy turns away again. “You know, you’re not so bad, Potter.”

“You can call me Harry,” he says, and smiles at her. She doesn’t smile back, but her lips twitch a little.

When Harry Apparates back to his flat, it’s to find Ginny sprawled along the floor, watching Muggle cartoons on their telly, and Malfoy sitting hamrod-straight next to her, eyes glued to the screen.

“How do you people even get in here?” Harry says wearily. “And haven’t you got a Quidditch match, Gin?”

Ginny doesn’t even turn to look at him, but Malfoy startles, turning around to look at Harry. “How was Pansy?” he asks, eyes darting between Ginny and Harry. Harry wonders if Ginny has been frightening him the way Pansy scared Harry. It wouldn’t surprise him.

“Good.” Harry shrugs, wanting to wait until they were in private to confront Malfoy about _mooning over him._

“Match ended early,” grunts Ginny, sitting up and tucking her long red hair behind her ears.

“Why are you here, then?” says Harry.

“I wanted to be,” says Ginny, as though that’s a perfectly valid explanation.

“Now that you’re here, we can go meet my mother,” Malfoy says to Harry.

“We don’t _need_ to.”

“He’s been putting it off for weeks,” Malfoy tells Ginny, who laughs.

“Can I stay in your flat?” Ginny says.

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy says at once.

Ginny frowns at him. “C’mon, have a heart.”

“You’ve a perfectly good place of your own, Gin,” says Harry, not moved by her sulking expression.

“I’m avoiding Luna.”

“What for?” Harry says indignantly.

“I’m afraid I’m going to tell her that I want to fuck her,” Ginny explains matter-of-factly.

Harry closes his eyes; beside Ginny, Malfoy blanches. “Too much information, Ginny. Too much information.”

“How do you know Luna doesn’t like you back?” interjects Malfoy.

“She talks about you all the time,” adds Harry.

“She thinks of me as a friend,” says Ginny glumly, heaving herself up using her thighs. “Just a friend, which is. Fine. ’S alright, I’ll go visit George and Lee. They’re my second choice because I’m not in the mood to be pranked.” She strides past Harry to the fireplace, leaning up on her tiptoes to ruffle his hair on the way.

“Oi, we’re running low on Floo powder, be careful,” Harry says. Once she’s gone, he turns to Malfoy. “What did she say to you?”

Malfoy grimaces. “The usual Gryffindor threats. What about Pansy? I can’t imagine that went well.”

“It did, actually,” says Harry. “It was – fun. Did you know she’s under the impression that you’ve been mooning over me embarrassingly for years?”

Malfoy turns a faint pink colour. “That’s a lie. Pansy’s a cow sometimes.”

“I didn’t think it was true,” Harry dismisses, feeling stupidly disappointed. “We’re not really going to meet your mother, are we?”

“Merlin, of _course_ not,” says Malfoy. “I’m not exactly looking forward to hearing her talk about how badly she wants grandchildren, are you? Knowing my mother, she’ll think it’s a given that I’ll marry you, and use a surrogate to carry on the Malfoy name. She’s probably already got someone picked out.”

Harry had already thought that was the case – Malfoy likes wearing Muggle clothing when he visits his father, because it scandalises him, but he always wears proper dress robes when he goes to meet his mother. Today he’s wearing jeans Harry is pretty sure Goyle, of all people, bought him, and a soft green jumper. He looks good. He always looks good.

“Good, because I had to deal with Pansy today,” says Harry, instead of saying something embarrassing like _do you want kids?_ or _I wouldn’t mind using a surrogate_ , “and you only had to deal with Ginny, and she already likes you. Mostly. So, how’s that fair?”

“Pansy’s company is a delight,” replies Malfoy, even though he has vehemently disagreed on this in the past, “but you have a point.”

“You owe me.”

Malfoy’s voice is indulgent. “What do I owe you then?”

“Er,” says Harry. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Mm.”

“It’s going to be something really horrible,” says Harry.

“Alright.”

Malfoy is still speaking in that soft, amused voice. Harry scowls at him.

“We should be seen in public,” Malfoy says after a moment. “Holding hands, or kissing.”

“Or – _what_? _What_?”

“To make sure everyone knows we’re in a relationship,” Malfoy explains calmly. “Our friends were idiotic to believe it when we weren’t even pretending, so it should be easy.”

“We’re not _kissing_ ,” says Harry loudly, and in that moment, he meets Malfoy’s eyes and he knows what they’re both thinking of – that windswept afternoon, Malfoy’s lips, chapped from cold, on his own, and the sounds that they’d both made, desperate and pleased. Malfoy swallows. Harry can’t look away from him. This isn’t supposed to be happening – they’d put that _past_ them.  

“Okay,” Malfoy says, voice hoarse. His eyes are grey, grey, grey. They remind Harry of the moon watching over him at night. “No kissing.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to, that’s all.” Malfoy didn’t want to kiss him back then, and Harry hasn’t deluded himself into thinking he does now.

Malfoy looks away. “Maybe we should call each other by our first names,” he suggests, sounding a bit more normal, but there’s a bitter twist to his mouth.

“We haven’t ever done that,” Harry points out. He tries to imagine calling Malfoy _Draco_ , and can’t quite manage it, somehow. Malfoy had told him not to call him that the first time he’d tried.

“No,” agrees Malfoy.

“We could, though,” says Harry.

“No,” says Malfoy again, “but we should be a bit more – affectionate.” He sounds like he’s picking his words carefully.

Harry gives him a charming grin – the one that’s a carbon copy of his dad’s, according to Sirius and Remus. To his delight, Malfoy actually blushes. “Does that mean I’m allowed to ruffle your hair?”

“No,” he snaps.

“You’re allowed to ruffle my hair,” says Harry, “and you do it all the fucking time.”

“Your hair is a mess, Potter,” Malfoy says disdainfully, “whereas mine is – ”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s beautiful.” Harry rolls his eyes. “More affectionate. Got it. Moving on?’

Malfoy stares at him a bit, then shakes his head, and continues, “We can’t tell anyone about this until after we stop pretending.”

“When’s that going to be?”

“Valentine’s Day,” Malfoy says, because he has a sardonic sense of humour.

It’s the beginning of December, so – three months, more or less. Harry can do that. “Perfect,” he says, because he has the exact same sense of humour. “Hermione might figure it out, though.”

“Most likely.”

“She wouldn’t say anything,” Harry says. “Not until everything is over, anyway. You’ll have to come for dinner with Sirius and Remus, then.”

Malfoy shudders. “I’d really rather not.”

“I have tea with your mother! And I’m meeting Pansy every week. Remus already likes you, and the only reason Sirius doesn’t because you two are weirdly alike.”

“We are _not_ ,” sputters Malfoy. “I’m _nothing_ like Black!”

Harry eyes him doubtfully.

“Stop _looking_ at me like that,” Malfoy hisses. “I’ll go. Happy now?”

“Delighted,” Harry deadpans. “This was your idea.”

“It’s a good idea,” Malfoy says defensively, “it’ll get my parents off my back. When Valentine’s Day comes around, I’ll tell them you dumped me and broke my heart, and they’ll leave me alone for a bit. A couple of months of peace, and maybe I can finally finish my articles.”

Harry frowns. “Wait, why am _I_ the one who breaks your heart?”

Malfoy smirks. “Isn’t it obvious? You’re a ladies’ man. A savage. A heartbreaker. A sex maniac. A dirty deviant. A – ”

“I get the picture,” says Harry, and leans over to grab a pillow from their couch to throw it at Malfoy, who catches it with five years of Seeker’s reflexes. “I’m telling Sirius and Remus that _you’re_ the one who dumped _me_. I wonder what Narcissa will think of the differing stories.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “If you do that, I’m coming tomorrow to embarrass you in front of a class of gossiping children.”

Harry should probably back out of this right now. He remembers the Hogwarts school motto – _draco dormiens nunquam titillandus._ Never tickle a sleeping dragon. It’s a bad idea to antagonize Malfoy, there’s no denying that, but – well, he’s always been a little reckless. He raises his eyebrows at Malfoy. It’s a challenge. Isn’t it always, with them? “Go ahead.”

 ────────────────────

“Professor Potter?”

Harry looks up from his desk. He’s been on edge all day, waiting for Malfoy’s arrival, and his second class is still in twenty minutes. “Something the matter, Adriana? You’re a little early for class.” Some of Harry’s students like being early for class – though all they do is sit in the corner and cast giggling looks at him – but Adriana isn’t one of them.

Adriana Fawley, one of Harry’s fifth year students, tall and wiry with light brown skin the same colour as Harry’s, stands uncertainly in front of him, hands clasped together. “I know, sir. I had a – question for you.”

“Alright,” says Harry, smiling at her. She’s a good student, focused and determined and passionate. “What is it?”

“I heard that, during the summer, you have a place for students to stay,” says Adriana in a rush, like the words are easier to come out quickly. “If they have nowhere else to go, or their families don’t want them – and my family doesn’t want me, sir, not me as I am.” She lifts her chin up, looking an equal mix of ashamed and proud. “I’m a lesbian, you see, and they don’t approve. They sent me a letter, telling me to come back for winter break, because they’ve hired someone to make me see that I should like men. I’m staying at Hogwarts, but I don't know where I'll go for the summer. I don’t – I don’t want to go back.”

Sirius hadn’t wanted anything to do with Number 12 Grimmauld Place. He’d given it to Harry, and Harry hadn’t wanted it either – but Kreacher was better nowadays, and he’d felt guilty about leaving the house so empty. The solution had fallen into his lap easily – a second year had confessed to him that he was scared of going back home, where his mother would insult him and his father would drink all day. _You won’t tell, will you, Professor Potter? I don’t trust the other adults. Please don’t tell them,_  he’d said earnestly. _I won’t tell_ , Harry had promised, _but why don’t you stay with me for the summer?_ He had thought of thirteen long years with the Dursleys. He had thought of his cupboard under the stairs.

Harry spent his Christmas break fixing up Grimmauld Place. He told Malfoy he would live there for the summer, and Malfoy had said, “That house belongs to me as much as it does to you. _I’m_ a real Black, and if you think I’m not going there with you, you’re even more crazy than I thought.” It was only Harry, Malfoy and the little second year at first, but news had spread. A whole crowd of Harry’s students had come to him, nervous and stammering, and asked to stay with him. A fourth year who didn’t want to be around her uncle, a first year who only had an orphanage to go back to, a fifth year whose family had kicked him out – and Harry had never felt more right about his decision to teach, or his decision to help these abandoned souls. He had been saved. They were going to be saved too.

They were nice, those summers with Malfoy and his students.

Now Harry’s heart twists painfully at the expression on Adriana’s face. “Of course you’re welcome to stay,” he says gently. “Adriana – I’m sorry.Your family should be proud of you. You’re an excellent student, and you’re going to go places. I’m proud of you, yeah?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And – ” Harry hesitates. “Maybe your family should know that the so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World is a flaming poof himself.” The Fawleys, he remembers, are an old pureblood wizarding family.

Adriana’s head snaps up. The side of her mouth turns up. “Is he really, Professor Potter?”

“Bisexual, I’m told.” Harry smiles crookedly at her. “You’d best sit down, the rest of the class will be arriving soon.”

Adriana grins brightly at him. “Thank you, Professor Potter sir.”

Students start filing in, chattering and whispering to themselves, ties undone and sleeves rolled up. Harry watches them absently, then notices Neville, now a Herbology professor, pushing past them politely towards Harry. Many of the kids start gazing at him dreamily.  

“Neville,” says Harry, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Neville pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Hey, Harry. I was walking by, and I haven’t got a class – I just came by to say congratulations.”

“Congratulations,” repeats Harry. “Er, for what, exactly?”

Neville tilts his head to the side, frowning at him. “Your engagement!”

Harry winces. Neville had spoken a little loudly, and now some of the students are turning to look at them curiously. He doesn’t have time for this. His class should be starting in ten minutes. “I’m not – I’m not engaged, Nev.”

Neville squints at him. “Really? Well, either you or Malfoy better hurry up and propose. Our betting pool is getting cold by now.”

“What,” says Harry, staring at him, and then, of course, Malfoy struts inside his classroom, a satisfied smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. And is he – he’s holding a giant bouquet of roses. Of course he is. “Fuck,” Harry mutters under his breath, and fights the urge to hide under his desk.

“Sugar pie!” calls Malfoy sweetly, advancing towards Harry’s desk.

The students are tittering, looking from Malfoy to Harry. “Calm down, everyone,” Harry tells them, and looks straight at Malfoy. _Two can play at this game, Malfoy,_ he thinks.

“Snookums,” he greets. “You’re a dear. Are those roses?” Harry bats his eyelashes, placing his hands under his chin. “For _me_?”

Malfoy’s smile is strained, but Harry thinks he and Neville are the only ones to notice. “Yes, honey bunch.”

Roses are his favourite flower, actually, but Malfoy probably just picked them because they’re classic flowers that symbolise love, so Harry pushes away any warm feelings in his chest.

“Longbottom,” says Malfoy to Neville, inclining his head. “You’re looking good. Not as good as my precious baby cakes, of course.”

Neville looks like he’s about to start laughing any moment now. “Of course.”

Harry beams. “Aw, babe.” He accepts the roses gracefully, and grabs hold of Malfoy’s robes, pulling him closer. He kisses Malfoy on the cheek and whispers, “Nice try,” in his ear. Out loud, he says, “I’ll see you at home, darling.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes, but he’s turned bright pink. “I can hardly wait, my beautiful dove.” He flounces off, ignoring the laughter around him.

Harry shrinks in his chair at the weight of all of the stares and giggling around him. He has never been so mortified in his life, and yet, catching sight of the roses on his desk makes him smile.

 _James once gave Lily a giant bouquet of – well, lilies,_ Sirius had told him once.

 _Needless to say,_ Remus had said dryly, _she wasn’t too impressed._

It isn’t the same thing, of course.

“Not engaged, huh?” says Neville, with a raised eyebrow.

Harry clears his throat. “Everyone be quiet. Class has begun now.”

Almost every single of his students is snickering at him, thinks Harry ruefully, and there’s no way they’re going to be concentrating on learning the Patronus Charm. _You did this to yourself,_ he reminds himself, as a Gryffindor asks him gleefully if he’s married to Mr Malfoy.

God, why had he done this to himself?

────────────────────

Pretending to date Malfoy is easier than Harry would have thought.

“There he is,” Harry says, spotting Malfoy’s distinctive white-blonde head in a crowd of people near the entrance of the Muggle pub they’re all currently sitting in. Dean, Seamus, Neville and Luna aren’t here – neither is Padma Patil, and Harry thinks that must have something to do with her fight with Pansy – but Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Blaise and Pansy are, and now, _finally_ , Malfoy is too.

“Were you missing him?” says Hermione. Ron pretends to gag.

“No, all he ever does is complain and insult my hair,” Harry replies automatically, then freezes. Maybe he should have said something more...couple-y? But Hermione laughs, so it must be alright.

“All _you_ ever do is complain about him complaining and insulting your hair,” points out Ginny, yawning. “Ron, did you see how badly the Chudley Cannons lost yesterday?”

Ron scowls at his sister. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Ronald,” drawls Pansy, sipping at her drink elegantly, “you need to give up this insane obsession with that awful team. When you inevitably pop out another Weasley, you’ll pass your obsession onto the brat, and the poor kid doesn’t deserve the disappointment.”

Before Ron can retort angrily, Malfoy slides in next to Harry. “What disappointment? Are we talking about Weasley’s sad obsession with the Chudley Cannons?” He turns to Harry and says, “Hey,” softly.

“Hey,” says Harry with a smile. Malfoy kicks him under the table, and he remembers _More affectionate_ , and plants a kiss in his hair. (Malfoy’s hair smells nice.) Then Harry kicks him, too.

“You’re both disgusting,” says Blaise cheerfully, rearranging his hair artfully.

“While we’re on the subject of kids,” begins Ginny, “what about you two? I mean, hypothetically, kids: yes or no?”

“Yes,” say Harry and Malfoy at the same time.

Harry gives Malfoy a surprised, pleased look. Malfoy gives him the same look back.

Hermione smiles.

“How many would you reckon?” Ginny presses on. “Ron and Hermione say they’d like two. Hypothetically, of course.”

“Four?” offers Harry, because he’s always wanted a big family, the kind Ron and Ginny have and the kind he never got.

“Three,” says Malfoy.

“Three is good,” Harry says, shrugging.

“Would you use a surrogate?” asks Hermione.

Harry squirms, unsure where this interest in his and Malfoy’s hypothetical children has come from. “Adoption also works, but – ” He glances at Malfoy. “Narcissa really wants a Malfoy heir.”

“So, possibly a surrogate,” says Malfoy.

“Who would you use?” Ron says. “Just want to make sure my hypothetical nephew has a good mum.”

“Hermione,” says Harry at once, at the same time Malfoy says, “Pansy.”

Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Pansy and Blaise all laugh.

“It’s not that funny,” says Harry, crossing his arms. He turns to Malfoy and suggests, “Luna?”

“Luna,” agrees Malfoy decisively.

“Now mind your own business,” says Harry sternly to his friends. “Talk about the Chudley Cannons, or Blaise’s depressing love life.”

“My love life is not depressing, thank you very much,” says Blaise dryly. “Just because I’m not in love like you lot – ”

“Oh, because I’m in love?” says Pansy, snorting. Harry thinks about Padma, and thinks Pansy _might_ be in denial.

Blaise ignores her. “ – doesn’t mean I’m not having sex every night.”

Ron blanches. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Hermione, with a pitying glance at Ron, changes the subject to the bastards at work who are ignoring her petitions for house-elf rights. Malfoy leans forward and starts arguing with her animatedly. Harry watches him fondly, and doesn’t make himself look away – because he doesn’t need to, at least for now. He’s helping the illusion that he and Malfoy are in love.

And that – that’s Harry’s excuse for everything he does over the next month.

On December 5th, Narcissa Malfoy walks into their flat with her head held high and eyes narrowed.

“What, exactly, are your intentions with my son?” she says coolly, her tea and biscuits untouched on the ancient table Malfoy had brought over from Malfoy Manor ages ago, ignoring Harry’s protests.

“Er,” says Harry, with a nervous glance at Malfoy, who sits next to him and keeps nodding encouragingly at random points of time. He takes a risk – to help the illusion that he and Malfoy are in love – and slings an arm along Malfoy’s bony shoulders, pulling him closer. Malfoy smells like expensive shampoo and coffee and Narcissa’s perfume. “I love him, Mrs Malfoy,” continues Harry. It isn’t even a lie.

Narcissa softens a little. “And do you plan on marrying him? In which case we would not have an heir unless – ”

“Merlin, Mother, we know,” cuts in Malfoy, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t know, that’s in the future.” Harry looks back at Narcissa anxiously. “Right now, I want to be with your son, and treat him well. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

Narcissa smiles. “As long as Draco is happy, yes. That is all that matters.” She stands up gracefully, kisses Malfoy briefly on the cheek, gives Harry one last smile, and takes the Floo out. Harry feels like he’s passed some sort of test.

“You really convinced her,” says Malfoy once she’s gone, pushing Harry’s arm away. “Good job, she definitely believes we’re in love.”

“Yeah,” says Harry. He had told Narcissa the truth. He had meant every word.

Harry suffered through an awkward meeting with Narcissa, and now it’s Malfoy’s turn, so he ignores Malfoy’s grumbling and sets off for Sirius and Remus’s place.

Sirius and Remus are what Harry likes to call _old_ , which is why they retired to a seaside cottage close enough to Harry that he could visit without Apparating or Flooing if he wanted to. Harry likes it there. It reminds him of Shell Cottage, and the war, and the wind in his hair. But he misses their old house – his old home – so fiercely sometimes he gets angry all over again at Bellatrix Lestrange for burning it down, even though it’s worth not having their home if they’re alive, and so very glad she’s dead.

Malfoy stops abruptly in front of the painted-red door. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Relax,” says Harry.

“They don’t like me,” Malfoy hisses.

Harry fights the urge to smile. Malfoy hates people who don’t like him, but he warms considerably to anyone who does. “Remus likes you. Sirius will get over it. As long as he thinks I’m happy.” He feels another pang of guilt.

“Hold my hand,” Malfoy says suddenly.

Harry stares at him. “What?”

Malfoy sneers. The expression is so familiar Harry feels something inside him settle. “Have you forgotten already we’re supposed to be a couple? No wonder you have so much trouble finding dates.”

Harry rolls his eyes the way Remus does when Sirius sleeps in. Malfoy extends his hand – long, pale, slim – and waits for Harry impatiently. Harry hesitates, then entwines his hand with Malfoy’s. It doesn’t mean anything, not really, but Harry feels his heartbeat quicken. He hopes his hand isn’t sweaty. (Malfoy’s isn’t. It’s cool, and soft, probably because of the lotion he applies at night.)

“You’re still wearing my ring,” Malfoy notices.

“You’re wearing mine,” Harry says defensively. He’d just thought that it would help the illusion that he and Malfoy are in love if he wore Malfoy’s ring.

There’s an odd sort of expression on Malfoy’s face. “Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t,” says Harry. He squeezes Malfoy’s hand instinctively. It’s – it’s nice. “Ready?”

Malfoy lifts his chin up. “Obviously.”

“Okay.” Harry exhales, and rings the bell. Remus, to his relief, is the one who answers, smiling slightly, his sleeves rolled up.

“Harry, Draco,” he says, after hugging Harry tightly enough to cut off his circulation, and shaking Malfoy’s other hand. His gaze moves to their intertwined hands, and he raises an eyebrow in true Remus fashion, but says nothing, only invites them in. Sirius comes out of the kitchen to greet them with narrowed eyes and stiff composure. He’s also wearing his pyjamas, and his hair is pulled back into a chaotic bun, but he doesn’t insult Malfoy, and Malfoy refrains from insulting _him,_  so. So far so good.

“Let’s sit down,” Sirius says loudly.

“Lower your volume,” says Remus, sighing. “And of course we’ll sit down, Harry and Draco aren’t going to stand there the entire time they’re here.”

Malfoy gives Remus his crooked half-smile. He must remember what Harry said about Remus liking him.

“Don’t _argue_ with me,” Sirius hisses.

“I’m not arguing with you,” argues Remus. “I’m only _saying_ , Harry must be nervous and we should be – ”

“You’re being mean,” Sirius complains.

Harry clears his throat. “Let’s all have some coffee, shall we?”

Sirius and Remus both turn to him with identical questioning expressions.

“You don’t like coffee!” says Sirius, scandalised. The biggest thing Sirius and Malfoy have in common is a tendency to be a drama queen. It must run in the family.

“Oh,” Harry says. “Well, Malfoy does.” _And he would whine at length if I’d said tea instead of coffee,_ he adds silently in his mind.

“Ah,” says Remus knowingly.

No _ah_ , thinks Harry despairingly. It isn’t supposed to be this easy to convince everyone in his life that he’s in love with Draco Malfoy. Sirius and Remus, at least, should question his supposed romantic feelings. Harry isn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed at his own acting skills.

“I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” Sirius offers, probably so he can escape this conversation, and at Remus’s affirmation, flees into the kitchen like Harry does in uncomfortable situations.

Harry is still holding Malfoy’s hand. Should he let go? Maybe he should wait for Malfoy to let go. But what if Malfoy is waiting for _him_ to let go? But what if he lets go and it seems awkward?

Malfoy, following Remus, pulls him gently inside the sitting room and settles on a couch that is much more comfortable than the one in their flat. He lets go of Harry’s hand. Harry tries not to miss the way Malfoy’s hand had felt against his own, and fails.

“So,” Remus says, smiling. “What brings you two here? Your Owl was fairly vague.”

Remus already knows, thinks Harry darkly. He just wants to make Harry _say_ it. Harry doesn’t want to say that he’s dating Malfoy more than he absolutely needs to, so, trying to stall for time until Sirius arrives, he says, “I like the new throw pillow.”

“Thank you,” Remus replies, accepting Harry’s pathetic attempt to change the conversation. “We found it in some of your dad’s old things.”

“Oh,” says Harry quietly.

Remus’s smile turns wistful. “Your grandmother brought it back from Pakistan. James had it with him in first year. I didn’t know he’d kept it.”

Harry blinks rapidly. Sirius and Remus’s stories about his parents are always bittersweet. Malfoy is a comforting weight near him, leaning against Harry’s shoulders.

Sirius enters the sitting room and sets down the coffee and tea. He glances cagily at the door, but sits down next to Remus.

“Maybe you’ll answer my question now,” says Remus, because he knows Harry too well.

Harry swallows. “Er. I wanted to tell you both that I’m in a relationship with Malfoy.” Malfoy nudges him sharply, probably to make fun of his terrible conversation skills and to shame him for calling his supposed boyfriend by his last name. Harry nudges him back.

Sirius starts coughing.

“A romantic relationship,” Harry elaborates. “We’re. Together.”

“That’s wonderful,” Remus tells him, patting Sirius gently on the back. “I’m very happy for you both.”

Harry can’t bring himself to look at Remus’s face. “That means a lot,” he says, and it does.

“Me too,” Sirius says. He sounds like he’s forcing the words out, but he also sounds like he’s telling the truth. “I’m happy for you too. I hope you’re – happy together.”

“Thanks,” mumbles Harry, feeling even worse about lying. “Y’know, everyone else already thought we’d been. Together. The whole time.”

“Ah,” Remus says again. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

 _Why the fuck does that not surprise you?_ Harry almost scream. He says nothing. They subside into awkward silence. What he wants most of all is to ask if the way he feels about Malfoy is written on his skin. What he wants is to ask why everyone seems to think they know how he feels, when he has no idea. On one hand, there is the memory of Malfoy’s lips against his. On the other, there is Malfoy pulling himself away from him. Malfoy running away.

Malfoy says something about the coffee. Remus says something about the weather. Sirius says something about how if Malfoy hurts Harry, he’ll break Malfoy’s face in ten different ways. Remus says something about how that sentiment is shared.

All in all, Harry is absurdly relieved when they make their excuses and leave. Malfoy looks traumatised for life as they step through the door.

“I had to deal with your mother,” Harry reminds him. “They’re tame compared to her.”

Malfoy shudders. “That was horrifying. Give me your hand, Potter, so I can Apparate us back to a place where I will not be threatened.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Harry says, but being dramatic is in Malfoy’s nature, and he probably can’t help it. He gives Malfoy his hand, and doesn’t mention that he could also take Malfoy’s arm, which is less intimate. He pauses. “Oh. Er, I forgot to mention, I bought that book you were talking about last week.” Harry knows he can say this once they’ve gone home, but he wants to hold Malfoy’s hand for a little longer.

Malfoy’s eyes go wide. “The one with robots?” He pronounces the word  _robots_ carefully.

“Yeah.”

“You have to read it,” says Malfoy, and lapses into a rant about all of the virtues of the book, as though Harry hasn’t heard it all for the past week. As though Harry didn’t buy the book because Malfoy loved it so much.

It was Remus who introduced him to reading. Harry thinks it wasn’t Narcissa or Lucius who introduced Malfoy. He thinks Malfoy introduced himself. It’s a strange thought, a young, hungry, lonely Malfoy absorbing himself in words upon words upon words.

Malfoy has either forgotten about their joined hands or doesn’t care. Either way, Harry isn’t about to complain. He pushes down any stray thoughts about how that isn’t a strictly platonic way of thinking, and focuses on Malfoy’s excited voice, comforting and familiar as rain starts falling down amongst them.

“Oh,” Malfoy says, noticing the rain. “We should go. I didn’t mean to go on.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. It’s charming, he almost says. I love that about you, he doesn’t say. Love. He doesn’t use that word when it comes to Malfoy.

The rain falls faster, a steady beat drumming against Harry’s skin. Malfoy looks at him, almost wondering, and reaches out. He presses a palm against Harry’s cheek. Harry’s heartbeat quickens. He can’t breathe. Malfoy’s hand, gentle, ever gentle, brushes something away.

“You had an eyelash there,” Malfoy says quietly.

“Oh.” Harry looks at him for a long time. They are both almost soaked by now. Harry can feel a question stretched out between them both – _what are we doing?_ He thinks for a moment he has an answer – and Malfoy turns away.

“We should go,” he says again.

“You’re not going to make a wish?” Harry asks, heart still thundering.

Malfoy’s mouth quirks, just barely. “A wish?”

“It’s a Muggle thing,” Harry tells him. “Superstition. If your eyelash falls, you blow on it, and make a wish.” Harry had always made the same wish as a child: to leave the Dursleys, or to have a family, or to have a home. And it had come true, however many years later.

“You should make the wish then,” Malfoy says. “It’s your eyelash.”

Harry offers him a smile and a shrug. “You took it.”

The eyelash is still on Malfoy’s finger. He brings his finger up to his mouth, and blows it away. Harry watches him to do it, his attention caught on Malfoy’s pursed lips. He thinks for a moment the eyelash will stick to his finger, but it flies away. Like magic.

“What’d you wish for?” Harry says. His voice is soft. This is a moment, he thinks, he will remember for a long time. Malfoy in the rain, hair sticking to his head, eyes bright, mouth turned down.

“Guess,” Malfoy says, and Apparates them back to their flat, where Harry remembers to write _Seamus Finnigan_ on the _List of People I Wish I Could Murder,_ and Malfoy casts a Heating Charm on some leftover curry to eat. And they settle onto the couch and watch Muggle pictures until Malfoy falls asleep, his mouth falling open and his head falling against Harry’s chest.

────────────────────

Living with Malfoy was easier than Harry would have thought.

He hadn’t really decided to move in with Malfoy. He had, instead, fallen into a habit of staying in Malfoy’s second guest room instead of staying in his room at Hogwarts, because Malfoy was so close, was always within reach. Ron said he was ridiculous. Harry agreed, albeit privately. He had gotten used to seeing Malfoy in the morning light, soft and rumpled, and eventually had suggested staying with him permanently.

The guest room was pretty much his already, and there was another one for any friends who might end up staying over. It was the most convenient solution, was how Harry phrased it.

“Oh,” Malfoy had said. “So you can still make me breakfast every morning?”

Harry had rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to smile. If Malfoy was asking, it meant he liked Harry’s breakfasts. And Harry sure as hell preferred making breakfast for Malfoy over making breakfast for the Dursleys.

Under no circumstances was it easy, living with Malfoy. When was anything with them ever easy? No, it wasn’t easy. Malfoy had a habit of leaving a mess everywhere he went, because he was used to people cleaning up after him without him asking. They had a few fights about that. Malfoy always needed to have dinner at a specific time, and breakfast at a specific time, but he considered lunch basically useless. He slept an insane amount, but sometimes he drank a ridiculous amount of coffee and stayed up ridiculously late, doing something equally ridiculous like writing an article or making a potion or practicing Charms they’d learned in school – as though Flitwick was going to spring an exam on them at any second. He was always singing along to songs on his Muggle telly at the top of his volume. But the worst part was that Harry found all of these things endearing, and he got used to them quickly.

Even worse was that he realised something – Malfoy was kind of attractive. Kind of. Barely. Just a little.

Harry had known he was bisexual since fourth year, when Sirius and Remus had latched onto his descriptions of Cedric Diggory with a suspicious gleam in their eyes, and literally started crying about his Big Bi Crushes, as they dubbed it. He had no doubt the Dursleys would have been horrified, but he’d stopped caring about their opinion a long time ago, and hadn’t talked to them since he was thirteen years old. In the wizarding world, it was mostly seen as perfectly acceptable, except in some pureblood circles. He had told Hermione and Ron in fifth year, and they hadn’t batted an eye. But Cedric Diggory was one thing. Malfoy was an entirely different thing.

Okay, so he’d kissed Malfoy, and wanted to do it again, and again. That didn’t mean he liked Malfoy in a romantic way. He wasn’t even sure whether he liked Malfoy in a non-romantic way. They’d sort of started living out of each other’s pockets by accident, and then kept on doing it. For the most part, Harry thought that they couldn’t stand each other, but also that they’d die for each other.

So he had two problems: a sort-of attraction to Malfoy, and meddling friends who kept questioning his reasons for living with Malfoy.

“Harry, I know you had a crush on Draco in sixth year,” Hermione had begun one day, biscuits left untouched, leaning against Ron. She was always leaning against Ron in those days, like she was scared he would disappear.

“What,” Harry said. “I didn’t have a crush on _Malfoy_ in sixth year. I had a crush on Ginny! I have never, ever, had a crush on Malfoy in my life.”

“Er,” Ron said, exchanging looks with Hermione.

“You’re wrong,” Harry insisted. “Ginny! It was Ginny! Not Malfoy.”

“It was a bit of both, I suppose,” Hermione said.

“But mate. The stalking? The constantly worrying about why Malfoy looked sick, and why he wasn’t talking to you or bothering you, and why he wasn’t doing his work or Quidditch – ”

“I knew he was doing evil,” Harry said. “That’s why. I was stalking in the name of good.” That didn’t sound right. “I was right, anyway.”

“Yes,” Hermione said hesitantly, “because you were paying so much attention to him that you knew something was wrong.”

“What,” Harry repeated.

“The point is,” Hermione persevered, “are you sure it’s a good idea to live with him?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ it be,” Harry said. “I don’t have a crush on Malfoy.”

“Hey, have you ever had a crush on me?” Ron said.

Harry made a face. “Ew. No.”

Ron looked stung. “Am I not a catch?”

“You are,” Hermione reassured him, patting his cheek.

“Yeah, I _am_ a catch,” Ron said. “What d’you mean, you’ve never had a crush on me? You had a crush on Malfoy and not me?”

“I didn’t have a crush on Malfoy!” Harry said, which was the exact moment Malfoy chose to enter the living room. He looked from Harry, whose cheeks started to burn, to Hermione, to Ron. He backed out immediately. It was extremely hard work explaining that to him later.

“Am I not attractive, or something?” demanded Ron. “Why have you never had a crush on me, Harry?”

“You’re like my brother!” Harry said. “That’s disgusting! I had a crush on Bill, maybe – ”

_“Bill?”_

“It was short-lived,” Harry said hastily.

“You had a crush on Bill, Ginny, and Malfoy.” Ron crossed his arms. “But not me? I thought I was your best mate.”

“You are!”

“What does _Malfoy_ have that I don’t?” Ron cried.

The conversation ended shortly thereafter, when Hermione dragged Ron away and told Harry to really think about what she’d said. Only, the last time Harry had listened to Hermione’s advice about Malfoy, he’d ended up with his lips pressed to Malfoy’s, and Malfoy running away from him. It wasn’t technically Hermione’s fault, but. As a result, he merrily ignored Hermione’s advice, and pushed away Problem Number 2.

Problem Number 1 was easy to push away too. It was alright if Malfoy was a little attractive. Everyone in Harry’s friend group was a little attractive.

So he had two solutions: dismiss his attraction to Malfoy as unimportant, and ignore Hermione’s advice.

Whatever Hermione said, living with Malfoy _was_ a good idea. Malfoy was probably the only person who would put up with Harry’s psychological damage and his obsession with treacle tart and his nightmares.

Malfoy had nightmares of his own.

On one of the first days he’d slept at Malfoy’s flat, he’d woken up shaking and sweating from a nightmare about dying or Voldemort or the war or everything. Harry was used to those sorts of dreams. He had one nearly every night. He’d climbed out of bed, trembling, and gone to make himself a cup of hot cocoa, the way Remus would do whenever he got sick, and he had found Malfoy in the kitchen.

“Oh,” Harry said.

Malfoy was sipping coffee, bags under his eyes and his hair mussed from sleep. “Oh,” he said, turning slightly pink. Malfoy was always turning pink.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Harry blurted out, conscious of the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. “Sorry.”

“Nightmare?” There was something in Malfoy’s eyes like understanding, or maybe it was mocking. More often than not, it was usually the first one nowadays.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “You too?”

And Malfoy had not answered, but Harry could guess at the truth. He made himself some hot cocoa and sat next to Malfoy.

“Do you just sit here, then?” he asked Malfoy.

Malfoy’s eyes were fixed on something other than Harry. “Yes, I just sit here. I go over every single one of my idiotic mistakes, and think about everything I should have done differently, and how and why I’ve ended up in a situation where Harry Potter is sitting in my kitchen without a shirt on in the middle of the night.”

“Er,” Harry said. “I get hot at night.”

“Of course you do,” murmured Malfoy, which Harry thought was pretty rich of him. Not everyone wore silk pyjamas to sleep, for Merlin’s sake.  

“I was dreaming about the war,” Harry said, though he wasn’t sure why he was confiding in Malfoy. “And dying.”

“Dying,” repeated Malfoy. “You told me that before – that you died. And came back.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, for lack of anything better to say.

Malfoy gave a little rueful shake of his head. “Why do you always have to be such a hero?”

“I’m not,” Harry said, and then, “I guess I had to be. So.”

“I’m kind of a coward,” Malfoy said abruptly. “More than kind of. I might have been the one to kill Dumbledore if you hadn’t made me change my mind. You didn’t have to do that. Why did you?”

“I did have to do that,” Harry said quietly. “I had to.”

Malfoy looked at his coffee. “You don’t have to do anything.”

They sat in silence for a while, but Harry hadn’t felt awkward or uncomfortable in any way. He’d felt, instead, comforted, by Malfoy’s presence and that the reason for it was the same as his own. And he had fallen asleep after all, at that kitchen table, when he usually only felt safe enough to sleep in the same room as Ron and Hermione or Sirius and Remus.

Malfoy had become something like a friend. They learned little things about each other, most things annoying – like Harry’s hair all over the shower and Malfoy’s hair products all over the flat – but some things strangely compatible – like their taste in Quidditch teams and what they should have for dinner. They knew how to navigate each other’s tumultuous moods and when to leave each other alone and when not to. So if Harry had known then the ridiculous situation he would end up in if he continued living with Malfoy, he probably would have kept on going.

────────────────────

Malfoy is staring at the roses on Harry’s bedside drawer in a peculiar manner.

“You kept them?” he asks.

“Roses are my favourite flower,” Harry says, squirming a little inside. Had it been strange to keep the flowers? They were a reminder of his mortification in front of his class, so maybe it was. “Not that you’d know.”

Malfoy’s head snaps up. “Excuse you,” he says in tones of deep and dark offence. “Obviously, I know roses are your favourite flower. You have no sophistication, and probably only know the names of five types of flowers, and you like classic things, and red is one of your favourite colours, _and_ you’re a romantic. It’s obvious.”

Harry tries not to stare. He feels warm inside, and kind of wants to replay Malfoy’s words over and over and over again, even though they were a little insulting. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “We were, er, discussing something.”

“Right,” Malfoy says, determinedly not looking in Harry’s direction. “We need to review our ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” Harry says in an amused voice, leaning back on his bed and getting comfortable.

“No telling anyone that we aren’t actually dating,” recites Malfoy, “unless Granger figures it out and asks us. No – fornicating, with other people while we’re pretending to date – ”

 _“Fornicating?”_ Harry repeats incredulously, tramping down his urge to laugh.

“No fucking,” snaps Malfoy, and suddenly it’s not very funny at all. Harry swallows. “No going out with other people.”

“Unless one of us meets someone they really like, in which case we will break off our pretend relationship,” Harry amends. In his case that’s unlikely, and he doesn’t like the idea of it happening to Malfoy, but it’s fair.

“I didn’t say that,” Malfoy says.

“It’s fair,” Harry says.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Fine. No – ”

“ _Why_ are we reviewing our ground rules again?” Harry interrupts.

“You’re having lunch with someone tomorrow,” Malfoy reminds him. “A very famous Quidditch player?”

“Er,” Harry says, racking his brains. “The Rudolph one?”

“Rafael,” Malfoy says, shaking his head and giving Harry a weirded out look. “He’s very famous.”

“You already said that.”

“And you slept with him,” Malfoy says. “Ringing any bells?”

“Oh yeah,” Harry says. Vaguely. Had he really told Malfoy about that? “But what does that – oh come _on_ , Malfoy, I’m not going to sleep with him again, or tell him anything.”

“I would understand,” Malfoy says carefully, “if you would want to – ”

“I _don’t_ ,” Harry says. “Come with me tomorrow and you’ll see.”

Malfoy looks taken-aback. “Oh – well, alright, then. I suppose we don’t have to review the ground rules – ”

Harry punches his bed in victory.

“ – but we probably should anyway,” finishes Malfoy.

Harry collapses on his bed in disappointment.

Malfoy continues, “No kissing unless we have to, but more physical affection…”

────────────────────

“You’re going to remember to get me an autograph, aren’t you?” Ginny says.

“A better question is, why are you riding on my back?” Harry asks.

Ginny tightens her legs around him securely. “Because I want to. Harry, come _on_ , you’re meeting Rafael _Hernandez_ , do you realise how amazing he is at Quidditch?”

“I’ll be honest, I don’t really know anything about him,” Harry says. He vaguely remembers training with the man – he’d been funny, a fairly good friend – and ending up in bed together, but not really any details. “He was nice, I think.”

“That’s Harry-speak for, we slept together but I don’t remember anything about it,” Ginny translates. “You’re such a floozy.”

“I’m not a floozy,” Harry says, offended. “I don’t remember a lot about that time.” Because it was after the war, he doesn’t say.

“I know,” Ginny says, quieter.

They’ve reached Harry’s rendezvous now. Harry can smell Ginny’s flowery perfume, and feel her chin resting against his shoulder. “I’ll get your autograph.”

“You’re the best!” Ginny says, pressing a kiss against his cheek and swinging off his back. “Now go, your boy is waiting for you.”

“My _boy_?” sputters Harry, but Ginny is already dancing off, and Malfoy is waiting at the door of the pub, tapping his foot and scowling. Harry trudges over reluctantly.

“Well, finally,” Malfoy says, ceasing his tapping and uncrossing his arms. He’s still scowling, and he’s dressed to impress, as Malfoy usually is – wizarding robes, today, in a brilliant shade of Slytherin green.

“Why are you being so grumpy?” Harry says, pushing the door open.

Malfoy’s mouth falls open. “Grumpy? I’m not being _grumpy_ – how dare you – ”

Harry notices Rafael Hernandez immediately; he’s kind of hard not to spot, being surrounded by a million fawning fans and all. He’s certainly very attractive, all dark, soulful eyes and muscular arms and curly hair. He’s also not really Harry’s type.

“Harry Potter!” Rafael greets loudly. “No, it’s no problem, have a nice day, I’ve just got a meeting here – thank you, I’ll just – ” He manoeuvres his way around the hordes of people attempting to press closer to him, and waves Harry and Malfoy over to another empty table, beaming the whole while.

“Hi,” Harry says, smiling, taking a seat in front of Rafael.

“Hello,” Malfoy says, stiffly. He sits next to Harry and looks extremely unapproachable.

“Harry Potter,” Rafael repeats, shaking his head. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“You too,” Harry says awkwardly.

Rafael turns to Malfoy. “And this is?”

“His boyfriend,” Malfoy cuts in. Harry manages to restrain his surprised expression, but just barely. Hernandez doesn’t need to be lied to about who Harry is dating. Malfoy can’t be jealous...can he? Malfoy doesn’t want him that way. He’d made that clear a thousand times over. And Harry doesn’t like him like that, anyway. Just because he _considered_ a few times...what it would have been like...

“Ah.” Rafael’s expression doesn’t change, but Harry can feel a certain shift in the mood. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, when it becomes clear Malfoy isn’t going to say anything.

Rafael clears his throat. “I suppose there isn’t any chance of me convincing you to come back to playing professional Quidditch, Harry?”

Malfoy is simmering next to him, either with anger or annoyance. “I’m afraid not,” Harry says, offering Rafael another smile, this one a touch apologetic for Malfoy’s attitude. “I’m pretty attached to where I am right now.”

They pass pleasantries back and forth. Harry remembers to ask Rafael for an autograph; he makes it out to _Ginny Weasley – a beautiful girl and an even more beautiful Quidditch player. Keep playing,_ with a smiley face at the end. Harry can understand what all those fans see in him. Rafael doesn’t mention their sleeping together, most likely because of Malfoy, and Harry is glad for it, because he really doesn’t remember much about it. Those days, he had been living for how he felt in the air: untouchable, sweat clinging to his collarbone, exhilarated, free. How he had been able to forget, for a minute, all that had happened. But he couldn’t have forgotten forever. Hermione and Ron and Sirius and Remus hadn’t begrudged him his time away. They’d known he’d needed it. Malfoy had been angry, and Harry knew why – because he had not taken Malfoy with him when he went to search for Horcruxes and then he had abandoned Malfoy again. Malfoy had been angry because he had needed to leave, too. It was a question Malfoy had left unspoken between them – _why didn’t you take me with you?_

Harry is glad Malfoy never asked him. The answer is too complicated to put into words. That he’d been such a mess. That he hadn’t wanted Malfoy to see him that way. That he’d thought being alone was what he needed, but what he had needed was just the simple comfort of Sirius and Remus kissing his hair, or Ron and Hermione’s fierce embrace, or Ginny’s wild laughter – alive, alive – or Luna’s understanding silence, or most of all Malfoy needling him and poking him until he was human again. That he had been scared of his feelings for Malfoy. That he had not known if he was the same Harry Potter he had been before he died and came back.

When Rafael makes his apologies and leaves with one last flash of a smile like the sun, Harry turns on Malfoy, who is still sulking. “What is your problem?” Harry asks.

“Nothing,” Malfoy says. “You should have let me stay home. If you really like him we can stop doing this.”

Harry’s heart twists. “Do you – do you want to stop?”

“No,” Malfoy says, “but you do, so – ”

“I don’t!” Harry says. “For Merlin’s sake, I don’t really like him. He’s a good friend. That’s all. Why were you being so – ” Harry searches for the right words.

Malfoy’s eyes flash. In that second he reminds Harry strangely of Ginny in a temper, Cedric arguing over who should take the Cup, Cho furious with him, Parvati Patil with her chin up because he’d insulted her ages ago. It’s possible Harry has a type. “So _what_?” Malfoy says.

“Rude,” Harry says. “Angry.” He hesitates. He almost wants to say _jealous._ “Rafael hasn’t done anything to you.”

“I’m sorry I hurt _Rafael’s_ feelings,” Malfoy replies coolly. He starts to get up from his chair and Harry pulls at his sleeve.

“Wait,” Harry says, mouth dry.

“What now,” snaps Malfoy.

The words come unbidden out of Harry’s mouth. “Let’s do something.”

Malfoy turns to look at him cautiously. “Something?”

Harry wants to do something normal, wants them to fall back into their rhythm, so they go grocery shopping, because it’s long overdue. Malfoy is wearing wizarding robes but they go to a Muggle store anyway, people’s odd looks meaning nothing to them by now.

“Marshmallows,” Malfoy says, pronouncing the word carefully. “Let’s get them.”

Harry isn’t sure if the particular marshmallows Malfoy is eyeing so hungrily are halal, or even if his father had only eaten halal food – it’s something to ask Sirius and Remus later, so for now he gives into Malfoy, like he always does. Even though marshmallows are _not_ on the list.

“I’m climbing into the trolley,” Malfoy warns him, before proceeding to do exactly that. Harry pushes him around amiably, settling down from the confusion of Malfoy’s behaviour earlier. He grabs some hot cocoa, since they’re running out, and Malfoy’s favourite biscuits. He has a vague, guilty voice in the back of his mind – one that sounds suspiciously like Hermione or Remus – that tells him to get more healthy food.

“Maybe we should get something healthier,” he tells Malfoy.

“What would we do that for?” Malfoy says, genuinely puzzled. “I get enough of that from my mother, Potter, thanks. Have Muggle shops really not got any Acid Pops?”

“No, they don’t,” Harry answers him, pushing the trolley to another aisle. “And I don’t know why you like those. They’re sick.” He gets some fruit anyways. Malfoy is a slave to blueberries. He likes the sweet ones best, but Harry is of the opinion that the sour ones are superior.

Malfoy tucks his knees against his chest. “Why are we grocery shopping again?”

“We need to.”

“No, really,” Malfoy says.

“You were being moody,” Harry says.

“I wasn’t being moody. I thought you liked Hernandez. Isn’t he your type? Good-looking, smiley, sporty type.”

“I don’t like him,” Harry says, but what he doesn’t say is that thinking Harry likes someone isn’t a good excuse for Malfoy being moody. Possibly there’s something else going on here. “And that isn’t really my type.” The sporty part maybe. Good-looking is a _plus_. He adds, more firmly, “I haven’t got a type.”

“Everyone’s got a type,” Malfoy says dismissively.

“What’s yours, then?” asks Harry, wheeling Malfoy over to the ice-cream aisle.

Malfoy is silent for a moment. He says, “Good-looking, sporty types.”

“Not smiley?” Harry examines the back of a pint of strawberry ice cream and thinks that he’s pretty sporty himself. And he’s not too shabby-looking either.

“Not _too_ smiley,” Malfoy corrects. “Aren’t you getting vanilla?”

“We always get vanilla,” Harry says, and puts a pint of vanilla into the trolley anyway. They always get vanilla, or that fake-looking turquoise stuff, or salted caramel. He puts a few more pints of different ice cream into the trolley. Malfoy carefully arranges them around him.

“Why didn’t you like him?” Harry says, wondering if they need anything else. They probably do. Wondering if they _want_ anything else, then.

Malfoy shrugs his bony shoulders. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“You brought it up,” Harry reminds him, but he doesn’t mind changing the subject. There isn’t anything he doesn’t want to talk to Malfoy about.

Malfoy shrugs again, lolling his head back. The lime lighting casts a yellow, artificial glow on his face. “Are we going to the pub tonight?”

“Do you want to?” Harry steers them towards the register. Ron’s been promoted at the Auror office, so Hermione and Harry had decided to invite a bunch of their friends to the pub to celebrate. Malfoy doesn’t _have_ to come. The night won’t be much fun without him, but.

Malfoy says, “Weasley’s your best friend.”

“Yeah, well.” Harry keeps his eyes ahead and determinedly not anywhere near Malfoy. “So’re you.”

There’s a silence. Harry thinks he might have actually shocked Malfoy into not talking, which is a first. They’ve never really talked about what they are, but Harry had thought _fuck it._ He’s pretending to date Malfoy. What’s the point of pretending Harry doesn’t care about him?

Malfoy clears his throat. “You are,” he begins awkwardly, “also my. Best friend, I suppose.”

Harry blows out an amused breath of something close to laughter. “Thanks.”

Malfoy, deciding to overcompensate for their emotional conversation, keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they continue towards the register, barely putting up a fight when Harry cajoles him out of the shopping cart. The cashier, young, with a haircut vaguely reminiscent of some of Harry’s students, watches them in an entertained way. Harry even manages to stop Malfoy from showing off his prowess when it comes to Muggle money. They walk out of the store, Harry with an air of triumph around him and Malfoy with a dramatic, sulky expression on his face. Harry can tell he isn’t really upset. This was a good idea. They’re completely back to normal now. _Better_ than normal. They’re best friends. They’re going to go to Ron’s celebration party, and have fun, maybe. Everything will be great.

────────────────────

Malfoy is drunk.

“Oh, Odo the hero,” he sings into Harry’s ear, leaning against his shoulders heavily, face flushed and hair an endearing mess, “they...something something home...something...something…”

Really, really drunk.

Normally, Malfoy’s tolerance is way more than Harry’s. He’s probably been sipping on wine since he was five years old. Harry’s not sure what’s going on, but he’s starting to ache with the effort of holding himself back from laughing.

Malfoy’s been acting strange this whole day. First there was his inexplicable behaviour with Rafael, and then, when Harry had changed into his clothes for tonight, he’d been fidgety and had stared so long Harry had asked him what was wrong.

“Nothing!” Malfoy had said, avoiding his eyes. “Have you always had that leather jacket?”

Harry looked down, frowning. “Sirius gave it to me for my birthday this year.” It was the first time Sirius had bought Harry one of his own, instead of just throwing his and Harry’s father’s old leather jackets at him.

Malfoy had mumbled something under his breath and turned away.

Now there was this: getting drunker than Harry did after a few pints. (So, Harry’s tolerance was pretty low. Not everyone drank a lot of alcohol. Some people were busy saving the world, okay, Malfoy?)

Harry has been subsiding from any more drinks, wanting to keep an eye on Malfoy, who is still singing terribly. He’s pleasantly buzzed right now, but not drunk. Someone needs to take care of the wanker.

“You sound like Hagrid,” Harry tells Malfoy.

Malfoy points an affronted finger at his chest. “Take that back,” he says blearily.

“Is he all right?” Hermione asks, smothering a laugh behind her hand. She’s smiling, her gaze on Ron, who’s talking about his new position to Seamus. Has Harry remembered to tell her she looks pretty tonight? He’s fairly sure.

“I’m all right,” Malfoy says indignantly, teetering on the spot and stumbling into Harry, who catches him easily. Malfoy weighs almost nothing. Harry doesn’t budge against him. He likes Malfoy like this. Uncomplicated. Leaning against Harry. Smiling.

“I should probably get him home,” Harry says, apologetically. He’s not really sorry for it, truth be told. Pub nights with Ron and Hermione are fine, but the party scene isn’t quite his thing.

“That’s fine,” Hermione says, her smile indulgent now. “Have a good night, Harry.”

Harry gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, and then goes to offer Ron his congratulations again. Ron gives him a big hug in response. He’s almost as drunk as Malfoy.

Malfoy pokes him in the shoulder. Harry is practically carrying him. “Why are we going?”

“You’re very drunk,” Harry answers, pushing past the crowds of people around them and stepping outside. The night air is cool, blowing his hair in every which way. He breathes in. Breathes out. Nights like this are made for living.

“Am not,” Malfoy argues.

“Are too,” Harry says, and Apparates them back to the flat before Malfoy can retort.

Malfoy nearly trips over a pile of his notes. He announces, “I might be about to throw up.”

Harry sighs. He brings Malfoy over to the bathroom, and holds Malfoy’s hair back as he throws up, and makes Malfoy open up his mouth so he can cast a spell to fix his breath. He thinks he should probably be a bit more annoyed at having to do all of this. He thinks it doesn’t really matter.

When Malfoy is securely in his bed, his comforter pulled over his chest, Harry turns to leave.

“Where are you going?” demands Malfoy imperiously.

“I have to go to my own bed,” Harry says.

“Don’t leave,” Malfoy says. He looks vulnerable, suddenly, lying there with his mouth pink and his nose scrunched up. Harry wants – he doesn’t know what he wants. He wants to make sure no one ever hurts Malfoy again, especially not him. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” Harry says, and sits down on the bed.

“You’re quite attractive, you know,” Malfoy tells him conversationally, burrowing in deeper in his comforter.

“Er, what?” Harry says. He must have misheard. He must have –

“Did you know,” Malfoy continues, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since you wore that leather jacket in fifth year. It was maddening, actually. I don’t think it’s fair for people to be so attractive.”

Harry’s heart probably stops. “Malfoy,” he manages, “you’re really drunk, you have no idea what you’re saying – ”

_I’ve wanted to kiss you since you wore that leather jacket in fifth year._

Fifth year. They hadn’t even been friends then.

 _Doesn’t matter_ , Harry thinks to himself, willing his heart rate to slow back down. Malfoy’s drunk. He won’t remember any of this in the morning.

“You’re the only one who calls me that,” Malfoy murmurs. “No one else says it like you do.”

“Says what?”

“My name.” Malfoy blinks owlishly. “My last name, anyhow. You never call me Draco.”

“You told me not to,” Harry says.

“Did I?” Malfoy wonders. His eyelashes flutter. “I had a dream where you called me Draco.”

“I can call you that right now,” Harry says, heart going _thump-thump-thump._  “Draco.”

“Maybe this is a dream,” says Malfoy, then: “I’ve had dreams about you sucking my dick.”

Harry chokes on thin air. “You – what?”

“I’ve had dreams about you sucking my dick,” Malfoy repeats.

“Ah,” Harry says weakly. Malfoy. Has dreams about Harry sucking his dick? After a moment, because it’s true, and Malfoy isn’t going to remember this in the morning, Harry says, “I’ve had dreams about sucking your dick.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, his mouth in a perfect circle. His eyelashes flicker again.

Malfoy thinks he’s attractive. Malfoy wants to suck his dick. Malfoy has wanted to kiss him since fifth year. Malfoy has dreams about him. Malfoy, Harry reminds himself, is drunk and has no idea what he’s talking about.

_Just because he’s drunk doesn’t mean it isn’t true._

“Don’t leave,” Malfoy says again, his eyes falling shut. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” Harry says, then, more quietly, “Not ever. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Malfoy begins to snore lightly. Both he and Harry snore, but in a quiet manner, unlike Neville. Harry looks at him. He feels tender, and strange. He reaches out, smoothes a hair away from Malfoy’s face. In his sleep, Malfoy looks peaceful, a million worries lifted off of his chest. He’s beautiful. Harry’s heart feels like it’s going to explode.

 _I would do anything for you,_ Harry thinks, and the thought takes him by surprise. He realises something.

Harry pulls off his jacket, shirt, and pants. He climbs in the bed, next to Malfoy, and lies awake for almost the whole night, staring up at the ceiling and wondering at his own stupidity.

He’s not just attracted to Malfoy in a passing way. He doesn’t just like having Malfoy as a friend. He is so obvious about that Sirius, Remus, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Pansy and fucking Dean Thomas and his sister knew before he did that he has more than a baseline compatibility with Malfoy and a sexual attraction to him.

He is totally, completely, head over heels in love with Draco Malfoy.

────────────────────

When Harry wakes up, he doesn’t immediately remember the humongous problem he discovered last night, which is being ridiculously in love with Malfoy, who he’s also pretending to date.

One small mercy is that Malfoy has apparently woken up already – though the coffee shop is closed today – and the bed is empty. Harry wonders if he had reached out for Malfoy in the night, if for a moment he had been able to touch Malfoy easily, without needing to think or worry about it.

He gives himself a few moments to mope and think things like: _Why am I such an idiot?_ and _I should have listened to Hermione._ Maybe Malfoy might think he’s attractive, _maybe_ , but he doesn’t want to be in a _relationship_ with him. But some part of Harry – the part that remembers Pansy talking about Malfoy being in love with him, the part that thinks about Malfoy’s behaviour yesterday – wants to hope.

 _You never know until you try,_ a voice in the back of his mind that sounds weirdly like Ginny encourages.

 _You should always try and find ways to have sex_ , adds another voice that sounds disturbingly like Blaise.

 _But don’t hurt Draco, or I’ll cut off your dick,_ says one that sounds like Pansy.

 _You’ve been in love with Malfoy since sixth year,_ chime Ron and Hermione’s voices together.

 _We all knew_ _before you_ , add Sirius and Remus.

“Shut up!” Harry says, and goes to brush his teeth. Once he’s done, he walks into the kitchen, where Malfoy is...cooking?

“Malfoy?” Harry asks, staring. Malfoy is faced the other way; all Harry can see of him is his white-blonde head, rumpled from sleep, but still lovely-looking. “Are you...making breakfast?”

“You don’t have to sound _that_ shocked,” Malfoy says, but his voice is subdued. When he turns around and sees Harry, he turns pink.

Harry’s not sure how to tell Malfoy not to be embarrassed, and not to worry about making a silent apology to Harry in the form of breakfast. He watches Malfoy burn toast and attempt to scramble eggs with a wince – there’s a reason Harry’s usually the one in the kitchen. Really, apologising to Harry with breakfast is _not_ necessary.

He has to say _something._ He can’t let last night be forgotten and ignored the way their first kiss was ignored. “I also have leather pants,” Harry says suddenly, and immediately wants to slink into the ground and disappear.

“What?” Malfoy says, turning around, his words coming out choked and shocked sounding.

“To go with my motorcycle,” Harry explains, deciding to follow the advice of the Ginny in his head and go with the flow. “Or, Sirius’s motorcycle, technically, but he gave it to me.”

“Your motorcycle?” repeats Malfoy faintly. “Is this – about last night, I’m sorry about that – ”

“Can we please,” Harry says, “talk about this? For once?”

Malfoy takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth, a little hesitantly, and then he says, “I have to talk to Pansy.” He gives Harry one last look, and his eyes soften. He adds, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Harry says, “Okay,” and once Malfoy’s left, hurriedly eats Malfoy’s scrambled egg (not that bad; Malfoy even attempted to put some spices in), and goes in search of Malfoy’s owl.

If Malfoy’s talking to Pansy, he needs to talk to Hermione.

Harry gives Malfoy’s owl a piece of paper asking Hermione if she has time to meet him. A few moments later he receives an answer that says yes, she needs a break from work, and she’ll meet him in a few minutes at the flat. Then there’s nothing left to do but wait.

Hermione lets herself in. Harry’s long since stopped asking her how.

“Hi, Harry,” she says, “what’s this about, then? Not that I mind seeing you, or having an excuse to leave work, Merlin knows those vultures at the Ministry – ”

“I’m in love with Malfoy,” Harry blurts out.

“Ah,” Hermione says, and sits down on the couch. Probably she’s sitting on top of the List. Harry doesn’t have time to worry about that.

Harry sits down next to her. “I’m not dating Malfoy.”

“You’re just pretending, and now you’ve realised that wish you were actually dating him,” Hermione finishes sympathetically.

Harry laughs a little. “Of course you already know.”

“I didn’t know why you were pretending,” Hermione admits.

“It’s kind of a stupid reason. It was Malfoy’s idea, anyway,” Harry says.

“So have you two realised you’re in love with each other yet?” Hermione asks. “Harry, I genuinely thought you were dating Draco before this whole fiasco with...a wedding cake?”

“Free wedding cake samples.”

“Right.” Hermione’s look is incredulous. “Before that. Then...I don’t know, you were acting so different. Not noticeably, only, to me and Ron, it was easy to see. I’m sure Remus noticed as well. And probably Sirius too.”

“That’s great,” Harry deadpans. “Anyone else?”

“Harry.” Hermione turns to look at him. There’s something in her expression Harry can’t place, but it twinges at him. “I want you to be happy.”

“I want you to be happy, too,” Harry mumbles.

“You’re so happy when you’re with him,” Hermione says. “So just be with him.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Harry says. “I don’t even know if he likes me back.”

“The Harry Potter I know,” Hermione says sternly, “doesn’t wait to find out if people like him back. If he doesn’t like you back, you can move on with your friendship. You survived the war, you can survive this.”

“We already moved on with our friendship!” Harry says. “We, er, kissed in sixth year, and he ran away. So he didn’t like me back then, and he doesn’t like me back now.”

“He ran away.” Hermione is wearing her _I-can’t-believe-how-stupid-boys-are_ expression. “And you both talked about why? And had a mature conversation, and he told you that he wasn’t interested in you?”

“Well...no,” Harry admits. “We didn’t talk about it.”

“You. Didn’t talk about it.” Hermione stares at him. “Ever? Harry, you’ve been living with Malfoy for three years and you’ve been friends with him for eight and you’ve never talked to him about your shared moment of passion?”

“Please don’t call it that,” Harry says. “We didn’t talk about it! Because he _left_. He didn’t want to talk about it!”

“Did you?” Hermione pauses, then adds, “Yes, you did. And you still didn’t realise that you were in love with him?”

“I realised yesterday,” Harry says.

“Oh, _Harry_ ,” Hermione says.

“I know!” Harry says. “I know. All of you were right, and I was wrong. I’m – an idiot. He doesn’t want to be in a relationship with me, Hermione. He just has an – attraction or something.”

Hermione pounces on that. “An attraction? He told you that?”

“Yeah. He said I was, er, attractive last night. When he was drunk. Among other things. But he was drunk.”

Hermione’s eyes glimmer. “Why _did_ he get so drunk?”

“I dunno,” Harry says. “He was acting weird the whole day. He was rude to Rafael Hernandez, and he was staring at me before we left for the pub.”

“He was _jealous_ , and I bet you anything he thought you looked _extremely_ fit in that jacket Sirius bought you.”

“Please,” Harry whimpers, “don’t say things like that. And I dunno, Hermione, I thought so at first, but what does he have to be jealous about?”

Hermione sighs impatiently. “You slept with Rafael, at a time when Malfoy was feeling abandoned by you. Rafael is an attractive, famous Quidditch player. How much more do you need me to spell out for you? You _know_ how he feels about you Harry!”

Harry stares at her. He feels like someone’s smacked him in the face. He thinks about Malfoy’s hand on his cheek, Malfoy saying _if you really like him we can stop doing this,_ Malfoy sitting next to him in Potions class, Malfoy calling him his best friend, Malfoy saying he dreams about Harry sucking his dick and calling him _Draco_ , Malfoy saying he’s wanted to kiss Harry since fifth year, Malfoy telling him not to leave, Malfoy giving him his mother’s ring, Malfoy kissing him back. “Malfoy and I are in love with each other,” Harry says out loud.

“Obviously,” Hermione says. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

Harry almost says, _Find Malfoy and sweep him off his feet with a big romantic gesture_ , but instead he says, “Wait for him to come home so we can have a mature conversation about our feelings.”

Hermione nods her head and stands up. “Good.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry says, and he stands up too. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. Do I need to come to the Ministry and give some of them a piece of my mind?”

“I can handle it,” Hermione says, and Harry doesn’t doubt that. She hugs him, once, tightly; he can smell her shampoo, the same one Ron uses. It smells like home. “Be happy,” she whispers into his shoulder.

“I’ll try,” Harry whispers back, and lets her go. Then, again, there’s nothing left to do except wait for Malfoy, who was also talking to his smarter half (Pansy).

Harry makes coffee. He tries to tame his hair, then thinks maybe Malfoy would like it better if he didn’t, so he gives up. He realises he’s not wearing a shirt and Hermione hadn’t mentioned because there had been an emergency, or because she was used to it. He puts on a shirt Malfoy bought him, one that’s green like his eyes or like Slytherin house colours. He is looking through the List and wondering if Malfoy wanted to put _Rafael Hernandez_ on there when he hears Malfoy come in. He freezes. He thinks, a little hysterically, _I’m not ready!_ He’s forgotten to put his glasses on. Everything is more than a little blurry.

“Potter?” Malfoy calls.

“Here,” Harry says. “You can, er, you can call me Harry. You know. Er.”

“I did not know, er,” Malfoy says, with a raised eyebrow. “Can I buy an Acid Pop before we have an actual conversation about…” Malfoy hesitates.

“Yes,” Harry says. “I’ll get my coat.”

He gets his coat. He gives Malfoy a Galleon so he can buy an Acid Pop. He watches Malfoy lick his Acid Pop, and then regrets watching Malfoy lick his Acid Pop.

“Shall we…” Harry trails off. He clears his throat. “We could walk around?”

“Okay,” Malfoy agrees, and at least he’s as uncomfortable as Harry is.

Hogsmeade is practically deserted, not a soul in sight. Harry can see why as snow begins to fall gently around them, settling into Malfoy’s hair.

“You have snow in your eyelashes and you forgot your glasses,” Malfoy says, like he can’t help himself.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since sixth year,” Harry says, at the same time.

“What?” Malfoy says.

“You go first,” murmurs Harry, giving a pile of snow a half-hearted kick as they continue walking.

“I’m sorry about whatever I said last night,” Malfoy starts.

“ _Don’t_ be sorry,” Harry bursts out. “You never would have said any of that to my face sober and you needed to!”

“I needed to embarrass myself?” Malfoy asks.

“No,” Harry says. “Listen.” It’s almost like he’s back in sixth year, hissing at a Malfoy who was tired and tired and hated Harry. _Listen._ “Why did you.” Harry stumbles over his words. He casts a glance at the sky above, clear and white, snow falling into his eyes. “Why did you leave,” he says finally. “When I kissed you, the first time, why did you leave?”

It feels freeing, finally asking the question Harry has been wondering since he was sixteen and so in love and he hadn’t known it yet.

Malfoy looks away. He links his hands together, and then breaks them apart. “You already know why,” he says.

“No, I don’t.”

“You made a mistake,” Malfoy says, forcing the words out. “You and your stupid hero complex. You wanted to save me. I know you’re not – attracted to me. We’re friends. That’s good enough.”

“What?” Harry says. “No, that’s not – I kissed you because I _wanted_ to.”

“You never talked about it again!” Malfoy says. “There was the war, and then you left, and I know you needed to, but when you came back you never talked about it!”

“ _You_ never talked about it!” Harry argues. “You ran away, and didn’t talk about it! You didn’t like me!”

“ _You_ didn’t like me!” Malfoy says furiously. He stops walking, crosses his arms and glares at Harry. Harry glares back, out of reflex, and stops too.

Harry grabs the collar of Malfoy’s coat and pulls him closer. His nose brushes against Malfoy’s. He can smell Malfoy’s expensive perfume. “If I kiss you now,” he says, “are you going to run away?”

Malfoy swallows. “No.”

“Good,” Harry says. The world is hushed, quiet, as snowflakes flutter from the sky. He kisses Malfoy gently, hand fisted in the collar of Malfoy’s coat, as snow falls around them, coating them with white. He wonders how he ever could have stopped kissing Malfoy before. His heart is racing faster than it ever has in a Quidditch match. This is it, this is the one, this is what he’s been waiting for.

He pulls away, resting his forehead against Malfoy. Malfoy is breathing heavily. Harry can hear every intake of breath he takes.

“Don’t stop,” Malfoy says, but he means _don’t leave._

“I’m not,” Harry says. I’m not leaving. He says, looking at Malfoy, whose nose is pink from the cold and lips are parted, “You’re beautiful.”

Malfoy says, “Don’t say things like that.”

“Things that are true?” Harry doesn’t want to move. He wants to rest his forehead against Malfoy’s, and feel him, close enough to kiss. He _could_ kiss Malfoy, at any moment. He wants to take it slow, and he wants to give everything to Malfoy. He wants to make Malfoy lose control.

“Do you.” Malfoy presses his face closer to Harry’s, nudging their noses together. “Is this real, for you?”

Harry says, “This has always been real for me.” There’s more he needs to say, he thinks, but there’s time. There’s time. If Malfoy will have him, they have all the time in the world.

“I’m not faking.” Malfoy’s words come out in a rush. “I’m not pretending. I want this for real. So if you don’t, tell me now.”

Harry smiles in response, Malfoy pokes his dimple absently, like he’s so used to poking Harry’s dimple that he does it without thinking now.

Malfoy is cold to touch, and his hair is covered in snow. Harry thinks he has hated Malfoy since he was eleven years old, and that he has loved Malfoy since was sixteen years old, and that now he holds Malfoy’s heart in his hands. It’s both a terrifying and wonderful thought. He says, “Let’s go back home.”

 _Home._ The word is quiet and soft between them; a private thing, something no one else will ever know. That home is wherever Malfoy is.

They go back home, and in between, Malfoy produces another Acid Pop and starts licking it, and Harry says _can you not?_ and Malfoy asks _why_ , and then he smirks with the realisation, pleased and smug. Malfoy takes a hold of Harry’s hand gently – _is this okay?_ Yes, a million times yes. (Malfoy is only ever gentle with Harry and Slytherins.)

Harry barely lasts until they’ve stepped inside. He pushes Malfoy against the wall, kisses him and kisses him so hard his lips feel bruised and hurt. He presses open-mouthed kisses on Malfoy’s pale neck, moves on to Malfoy’s collarbone, smothers a laugh when Malfoy shivers and tells him those are _delicate places_. Malfoy tilts Harry’s chin up and kisses him like he’s trying to say a million things at once – I love you, I hate you, please don’t leave. Harry gasps out, _Draco_ , and he can feel Malfoy’s surprised shudder, and then he kisses Malfoy and Malfoy moans, _Harry_ , and it feels like they should probably have crossed this point a long time ago.

“Did you dream about this?” Harry asks, legs entangled with Malfoy’s and neck covered in lovebites and an embarrassing smile on his face.

“You haven’t sucked my dick yet,” Malfoy says, eyes soft and hands tugging at Harry’s just-been-shagged-hair and eyebrows drawn together.

Harry says, “Challenge accepted.”

What is the challenge, really? To give Malfoy a chance at redemption? To love Malfoy? Whatever the case, Harry has done it a thousand times over. He’d like to keep doing it for the rest of his life.

────────────────────

The first thing Harry notices when he wakes up the first time is Malfoy. He’s still asleep, his chin tucked against Harry’s shoulder and his arm thrown across Harry. Their legs are tangled together, their bodies curved to face each other. The joy in Harry’s chest is so fierce it feels like it’s too much for one person to feel.

Malfoy’s face is smooth and unlined in sleep, and his hand is outstretched, like he’s waiting for Harry to hold it. So Harry does. He should wake up. But he feels so at peace. Surely, he thinks, it can wait till later.

The second time he wakes up, it’s out of necessity. Malfoy is shaking him awake.

“Mhm?” Harry says blurrily, forcing his eyes open. Malfoy’s hand had been outstretched for Harry’s, before. Now he can see that in his sleep, when Malfoy had left, Harry’s own hand is extended, waiting for Malfoy.

“Hi,” Malfoy says. To Harry’s delight, he seems _shy_. He gives Harry a bashful smile and says, “Lovegood is in our kitchen.”

“Luna?” Harry leans over to put on his glasses. They’re smudged, for some reason. Of course they are. “Why?”

“I have no idea,” Malfoy replies. “I think she decided to make breakfast.”

“Okay then.” Harry swings his legs over the bed. He hesitates. He wants to – kiss Malfoy again, or something. There had been so much kissing last night. It had been so fucking awesome. But maybe it would make things awkward?

Malfoy is watching him anxiously. “Er,” Harry starts. “I guess we should have some breakfast.”

“Right,” Malfoy says, turning away. He seems...disappointed?

“Wait,” Harry says. He leans forward and plants a kiss on Malfoy’s lips. Malfoy’s eyes flutter shut, and when Harry pulls away, they open again. He brings a hand up to his lips, carefully. He smiles at Harry. Malfoy’s smile is brighter than the stars at night.

Harry pulls on a shirt and goes to meet Luna, possibly finding out why she is in their kitchen at eleven o’clock or possibly not. You never know with Luna.

“Hi Harry,” Luna greets him. Her hair is braided in a style so reminiscent of Ginny, it must have been Ginny who braided it, and her eyes are wide and silvery under big, plastic glasses. Harry feels a rush of fondness towards her.

“Hi Luna,” Harry says. He hops onto the counter behind Luna and starts swinging his legs, which are long enough to reach the floor; Malfoy leans against the kitchen table, probably trying to look cool. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” Luna says serenely, “I wanted to see you. I also came to ask your advice. You see, I think I’m going to ask Ginny on a date. But she’s been so distracted lately. I think she may be part of the Zothenberg conspiracy.”

“Asking Ginny on a date would be a really good idea, Luna,” Harry tells her, nodding enthusiastically and deciding not to ask what the Zothenberg conspiracy is. “I think she’s just a little stressed.”

“If you say so,” Luna says doubtfully. “It could just be Wrackspurts, I suppose. Happens to the best of us. Speaking of Wrackspurts, have you and Draco figured your relationship out yet? Sex is always a good solution.”

“What,” Harry says. “Yes, er, we. What.”

“Good.” Luna nods. “I’m going to meet Pansy Parkinson. She’s also having some problems with her love life. I know Padma very well, you know, so I’m sure I can help her out. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Harry says weakly, watching Luna shrug on her neon green coat and walk out of the flat.

“She didn’t even finish her breakfast,” Malfoy says into the silence, and then they both start laughing.

“Have we figured out our relationship?” asks Harry, once they’ve calmed down. “I mean. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“No,” Malfoy says. “Have you?”

“No,” Harry replies. “I want to live with you for the rest of my life.”

“Good,” Malfoy says quietly, turning pink. “Because so do I.” Harry’s heart is beating so loudly he thinks Malfoy must hear it, everyone must hear it, the sound of his desire for Malfoy.

“You don’t want to be with anyone else?”

Malfoy gives him an exasperated look. He says, “There’s only ever been you.”

It’s Harry’s turn to blush.

Malfoy moves forward, standing in front of Harry. Harry licks his lips. He remembers last night again, and feels all of a sudden too-warm. His attention is caught on little things, like Malfoy’s top buttons being undone, exposing a sliver of collarbone that isn’t _decent_ , or the line of Malfoy’s jaw.

“Potter,” Malfoy says softly, and then changes his mind and says, “Harry. Do you want this for real?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Yes. I’ve wanted this for real for I don’t even know how long. A long time.”

Malfoy smiles, a little wryly, a little self-deprecating. “You can’t beat since fifth year.”

“Sixth year is close enough,” Harry says. There is a warm glow in his heart at the thought that Malfoy has liked him since fifth year. “Hermione knows we were faking, by the way.”

“So does Pansy,” Malfoy replies. “She told me that she’s known me long enough to know I am completely head over heels for you, and everyone has known it since we were in school. Well. Everyone in Slytherin. Apparently I talked about you quite a lot at Hogwarts.”

“ _Did_ you.”

“Stop trying to smirk.”

“ _Trying_ to?” Harry says indignantly.

“You can’t manage a proper smirk,” Malfoy explains. “You always look like a twitchy rabbit. It’s funny, really.”

“I can smirk,” Harry murmurs sulkily. Then, he adds, “Hermione and Ron have known that I’m also completely head over heels for you since sixth year. Apparently I talked about you a lot, and was kind of stalking you.”

“I noticed,” Malfoy says dryly.

Harry huffs out a laugh. He says, “Come closer.”

Malfoy comes closer. He smells like his new face wash and…

“Why do you smell like rosewater?” Harry sniffs suspiciously. “Are you following Sirius’s skin care routine?”

Malfoy crosses his arms and looks shifty. “No!”

Harry laughs again. “Come closer,” he says again. Closer closer closer. Harry can’t get enough of Malfoy.

Malfoy comes even closer, so he’s standing in between Harry’s legs. He’s close enough that Harry could kiss him. Before Harry can gather his courage to do it, _Malfoy_ kisses _him_. Harry kisses back easily, one hand moving to caress Malfoy’s neck. He spends a very enjoyable ten minutes kissing Malfoy. And in those ten minutes, he knows that he could do this for the rest of his life. And Malfoy wants him to.

Malfoy wants him too.

────────────────────

**_one year later_ **

“Mrs Weasley, it’s really nice of you to offer to bake our wedding cake,” Harry says, at the monthly Weasley dinner, for the fifteenth time. “But like I told you, we’re pretty set on Dean’s sister’s bakery.”

“Well, where else are you going to find coffee-flavoured wedding cake,” puts in Ron, pausing in the middle of amiably bickering with Hermione.

That is, thinks Harry, a part of it, but more than that, Camille’s Cakes is pretty much the reason he and Malfoy are together now. He owes Dean, Dean’s sister, and Seamus a whole lot.

“I suppose,” Molly says anxiously. She holds their guest list in her hands, and is going over it for the twentieth time. She’s worse than Remus. Malfoy refrained from going to this dinner mostly because of Molly’s endless remarks about their upcoming wedding.

Ron leans over. “You’re inviting all of your students, Harry, honestly. Oi, why are you inviting that reporter Malfoy punched in the face?”

“What reporter?” asks Molly, her face disapproving.

“Someone from The Daily Prophet who insulted Harry or something,” Ron says dismissively. “He had a black eye for weeks, I bet.”

“It’s nice that Draco defended you, dear,” Molly says, turning to Harry, “but it shouldn’t have gotten so violent.”

“Malfoy invited him,” Harry says to Ron. “I think he has a dark plan.” Harry remembers the day Malfoy punched that reporter in the face very well. He doesn’t remember what the reporter was saying even, only the look of fury on Malfoy’s face before he proceeded to punch the asshole. It had been extremely attractive, and also heartwarming, but back then, Harry had convinced himself of only feeling the latter.

“And you’re sure,” Molly says, “that you’re both not rushing into this?”

“I’m sure,” Harry assures her. He is sure, even though he and Malfoy have had a ridiculous amount of arguments in the past year. They always came back to each other. He can’t imagine being with anyone else. So what is the point of waiting?

Though weddings have proven to be more complicated than Harry originally thought. There are all sorts of pureblood customs, and wizarding traditions, and bonding ceremonies. One thing he didn’t have to worry about was his best men – Ron and Hermione were both up to the task (Hermione refused to prescribe to gender roles), and Ginny, Luna, and Neville were delighted to be his groomsmen (Ginny and Luna also refused to prescribe to gender roles). Malfoy hadn’t needed to worry, either. Pansy, Blaise and Goyle didn’t even wait for him to ask.

Malfoy had also said they should invite Rafael Hernandez. Harry thinks this has more to do with petty jealousy – of which Malfoy is a master – than with dark plans, but you can never be sure.

They’ve both settled on a summer wedding, on a day no one else will know the significance of, but that is the date of their first ever kiss.

“Harry, Dean wants to talk to you,” Hermione says from across the table. Harry leaves behind his food with some regret to go find Dean, who was invited to dinner because he’s friends with Harry, Ron and Hermione and Mrs Weasley is always looking for strays to take in.

Dean is in the kitchen, closing the fridge. He turns around, sees Harry, and starts.

“Hermione said you were looking for me?” Harry says.

“Oh,” Dean says. “Yeah. Just wanted to confirm your order for Cam? Coffee-flavoured is an interesting choice.”

“Malfoy,” Harry says by way of explanation, sighing.

Dean stifles a laugh. “I also, uh, wanted to tell you I’m really happy for you and Malfoy. And I’m sorry about last year, when – ”

Harry waves him off. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells Dean. He doesn’t say, _if you hadn’t seen us, we wouldn’t have started pretending to date, which would have meant that we wouldn’t have started actually dating, so you actually did us a favour._

“You were thinking of getting engaged even back then,” Dean says.

“Actually, we weren’t,” Harry admits, figuring Dean deserves the truth.

“You weren’t?” Dean looks startled again. “Well, I’m thinking of – I’m thinking of proposing to Seamus.”

“That’s amazing,” Harry says.

“And I was wondering how you proposed to Malfoy? Or how Malfoy proposed to you?”

“Er,” Harry says. They’d proposed to each other at the same time, actually. Harry had set up a private dinner in one of Malfoy’s favourite, fancy restaurants, had gotten on one knee, and Malfoy had screamed _no!_ And started ranting about how if Harry could have waited just one more week, Malfoy would have proposed to him in a _much_ better way, and then they’d started arguing about who was better at proposing, and then they’d made out. Neither of them even have a ring; they’ve both been wearing each other’s since Malfoy proclaimed them as an engaged couple to Dean’s sister. “I think you should just be yourself. Seamus loves you.”

“What if he says no?” Dean looks at Harry nervously.

“It’s a risk you should take,” Harry replies, thinking of Hermione’s advice and snowflakes falling amidst Harry and Malfoy. “Your relationship can survive him saying no. You love each other.”

“You’re right,” Dean says. “Thanks.” He starts to walk past Harry, and then halts abruptly. “I feel like this is the time to tell you something.”

“Okay?”

“I used to have a really big crush on you,” Dean confesses. Harry is too gobsmacked to say anything. “Do you remember that time when Seamus kept glaring at you for no reason?”

“Sort of,” Harry lies.

“That was because I told him I used to have a crush on you,” Dean says. “I was dating Ginny then, and he couldn’t glare at her, so he glared at you. Finding out you’re bi would have been a dream come true for me back then.” He pauses, then adds, “Not anymore, though. No offence.”

“None taken,” Harry says weakly.

“We should talk more often,” Dean says thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “We should. Want to come along to dinner with Sirius and Remus on Thursday?”

“Sounds good.” Dean gives Harry a cheerful goodbye and heads out of the kitchen, heedless of the bombshell he’s just dropped on Harry’s head. Harry spends a few more minutes in the kitchen, shaking his head and marveling at the fact that Dean used to have a crush on him and Seamus had glared at him for it and he hadn’t noticed. Then he pauses to wonder if Seamus had glared at him in sixth year because of _that_ and not because of Quidditch tryouts. He shakes his head again, and makes his goodbyes to the Weasleys. He’s ready to go home.

Malfoy is waiting for him.

He Apparates back to Hogsmeade. One of Malfoy’s employees is closing up the coffee shop, and Harry nods a hello at her. He doesn’t receive a reply but he hadn’t expected one: Malfoy trained these employees, after all.

In the flat, Malfoy is curled up on the couch watching a Muggle movie, his List of People I Wish I Could Murder tossed on the table in front of him.

“Hi,” Harry says, walking over to the couch.

“Hi,” Malfoy says absently. Harry plops down onto the couch, and, ignoring Malfoy’s half-hearted protests, rests his head against Malfoy’s chest and steals half of his blanket.

He turns his head and gives Malfoy a slow, long kiss, because he won’t ever get tired of that. Harry is smiling against Malfoy’s mouth; maybe Malfoy can feel it, because he pulls away and pokes Harry’s dimple.

“I love you, you wanker,” Harry says.

And Malfoy says, “I love you too, idiot.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @bisexualhaz! leave a comment if u enjoyed or something idk, that would mean a lot :')


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